


The Wolf Queen

by Mad_Mage



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, F/M, Faith of the Seven, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Multiple Partners, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Politics, Queen Sansa Stark, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Mage/pseuds/Mad_Mage
Summary: The Iron Throne sat empty for thirty years to the despair of many – until a Stark of Winterfell was marked by the Gods as the new High Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Now as Sansa ascends the throne, it is her duty to marry and provide the realm with an heir. According to tradition, the lords of her dominion gather in the Red Keep to offer her the pick of their sons, brothers or nephews, all coveting the power of the Prince Consort’s position. Is it even possible to find true love in the chaos of scheming lords and meddling gods?---Canon divergence AU where the gods take much more active role in the lives of their subjects, Sansa has had enough and everyone else has their own agendas.---AN: The first chapter works as a nice Jon/Sansa one-shot. From Ch2, Sansa has to learn to deal with a soul bond to seven unlikely men. Part 1 finished. More fun to come *grins*
Relationships: Arthur Dayne/Sansa Stark, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Oberyn Martell/Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Roose Bolton/Sansa Stark, Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Tywin Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 255
Kudos: 445





	1. The Heart that Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing’s mine, I’m just a poor mad mage.  
> \---  
> Welcome to my newest story! I hope you all have fun reading it because I certainly have fun writing it :)

PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE

**_The Heart that Bleeds_ **

_“A girl from the North, come to the capital for the first time. Not a child any longer.”_

The Iron Throne had sat empty for thirty years – until now. Sansa stared at the monstrosity and felt sick to her stomach, just imagining how much blood had been spilled by one of her predecessors to build it. The realm she was destined to rule had been built on broken bones of thousands of people. The price for peace and prosperity of a united Westeros had been high. Back then, it had been blood, rivers of it, and now?

Sansa as the High Queen wasn’t done paying the debt to the realm and to the people. Since the crowned seven-pointed star on her palm had appeared, she had lost her freedom, she had lost her very life. Sansa was no longer her own person; she was a slave of the realm, her destiny bound to the existence of the Seven Kingdoms.

Swallowing hard, she turned away from her throne and took a deep breath, her eyes settling on her only companion on this cold dark night.

Jon offered her a small smile but his grey eyes were downcast. The grief made them appear almost black. The dragon on his dark armor was done in silver – a nod to his Stark ancestry – and he wore a small direwolf clasp on his shoulder securing the cloak in place.

“Are you ready to depart, my queen?” he asked in a soft, solemn voice. It had been so long since Sansa had heard him sound cheerful, since he had offered her a genuine smile. Nowadays, Jon Targaryen hardly dared to meet her eyes, following her like a silent shadow as she wandered the Red Keep during the sleepless nights.

His pain was hers, her pain was his. That was the only thing they were allowed to share.

After her coronation tomorrow, Jon would trade his family colors for the white and gold of the Queen’s Guard. He wanted to stay with her no matter what. She couldn’t bear the thought of parting with him. 

They had been betrothed – just three months ago. Ser Jon Targaryen had been good enough to marry Lady Sansa of Winterfell. The young knight was capable enough to earn a spot of land and a small keep up in the North in a few short years and he was a favorite of his uncle, Sansa’s father. Lord Eddard wanted his children to marry for love, to have the same happiness he shared with his wife – and his nephew was a man of honor and integrity. The couple had been given his blessing without any reservations. They had been only asked to wait with the wedding until Jon could provide for his wife on his own.

Then fate had intervened.

The same Ser Jon Targaryen without any lands or titles could never dream of being enough to marry the High Queen, even after earning a small keep somewhere in the wilderness of the North. He was to inherit nothing from his paternal family. The only way Jon would be able to lay claim to any of the Targaryen properties was if his half-siblings, nephews and aunt and uncle all suddenly died or proved to be unfit to rule the Crownlands – which was not going to happen. Targaryens were notoriously known to fight tooth and nail for what they considered theirs – as most of the noble families did. Jon was lucky enough to be even considered a Targaryen after he had been born only days after his parents’ rushed wedding. ‘Bastard,’ that’s what some further south still liked to call him.

“Yes.”

Jon moved to offer her his arm but thought better of it. He just bowed deeply and gestured to her to precede him. As they made their way out of the throne room, she stole one last look at the throne. It would be her throne came tomorrow. The first thing she was going to do in her new role was to name the Queen’s Guard. Then she was going to host the lords of Westeros to in the Red Keep for several weeks at least.

It was a tradition that all god-marked rulers had to uphold and it served two purposes.

Whenever the line of succession was broken or in question, the gods marked their chosen ruler. They had taken their sweet time in Sansa’s case – some people had started to doubt that the gods would even speak their mind after thirty years of silence. Unrest had stirred up in the Seven Kingdoms and various lords and ladies with blood ties to the previous ruling dynasties had started to eye the Iron Throne with hungry eyes.

The gathering was necessary. Fealty oaths needed to be reaffirmed to the new High King or Queen, and if the new monarch happened to be unmarried by the time he or she ascended the throne, it was the perfect opportunity to find the right match for them.

Sansa shuddered again and felt like she would be sick for real this time as she thought about the pandemonium of the next weeks and perhaps months. All lords of her new dominion gathered in the Red Keep to offer her the pick of their titled and landed sons, brothers or nephews, all coveting the power of the Prince Consort’s position.

What was worse, she would need to marry one of them. It was expected of her to provide an heir, to secure the future after those years of uncertainty… and she needed a suitable husband for that. Nobody wished for another thirty years under the rule of the Small Council.

Sansa had no doubt that a civil war had been brewing before the gods had marked her. The Seven Kingdoms required an iron fist to rule them, to keep the order – especially with the current Lord Paramounts she had sitting on the Council.

She hadn’t been raised to be that ruler but she was a Stark of Winterfell and she would not shy away from her responsibilities. Inwardly grimacing, she did not look forward to her first official meeting with the Council. They would undoubtedly try and advise her on whom to choose. Sansa needed to tread carefully when she dealt with the Small Council – and while selecting her future husband and the father of the next High King or Queen.

Glancing at Jon, who was walking half a step behind her, Sansa swallowed and shook her head. She should have married him the moment he had proposed. He was the type of man who would offer his unconditional love and support to her and their children. Jon would have been an excellent Prince Consort, an excellent husband, and a father. She wished she had done so. Desperately.

They had been robbed of that opportunity. Their happiness had been sacrificed for the well-being of the realm, for Sansa’s duty, her responsibilities. If she were a selfish creature, she would ask him to elope with her. But she wasn’t her aunt and Jon wasn’t his father. Instead of being her husband, Jon would become the Lord Commander of the Queen’s Guard, sworn to celibacy, never straying from her side until death did part them.

What a sick twist on marriage vows.

“Good night, my queen,” he said when they made it to the door of her chambers. He stopped and bowed. “I will be waiting for you in the morning.”

He waited for Sansa to step inside but she couldn’t.

Sansa hated the desolate expression in his eyes and reached out for him, to touch his face, to run her fingers through his unruly dark hair. Chocking on her emotions, she gasped, “Oh, Jon, I wish you could stay the night…”

They had been robbed of that, too.

He closed his eyes when she gently traced the scar over his left eyebrow and then he slowly sank to his knees at her feet. With his arms wrapped around her, Jon pressed his forehead against Sansa’s stomach and heaved a shuddering breath.

“You know I can’t,” he whispered, in a broken voice. “It’s against the gods’ will, my love. Who are we to deny them?”

Biting her lip to stop herself from cursing the gods, she closed her eyes and let the tears fall as she cradled Jon’s head closer. The first night after the mark had appeared, Sansa had screamed herself hoarse, begging them to take it back.

She didn’t want it. She didn’t want the throne, she didn’t want the power. She didn’t care about politics. The only thing she had ever really wanted in her entire life was the man standing in front of her. They had grown up together in the North, loving each other since forever. Like a stupid little girl, she wanted her handsome knight and nothing else.

Only after long sleepless nights, Sansa had understood what had perhaps been the reason why she had been chosen. Because she didn’t want any of those things, because of her kind heart that was needed to heal the realm.

But how could she possibly heal the realm if her heart had been broken into a thousand pieces? She wasn’t feeling very charitable towards the gods right now.

Jon reached for her hands and kissed her palms, brushing his lips against the god-mark with special care. His eyes were closed and face contorted in pain. Then he rose, taking a resolute step backward. “Until tomorrow, my queen.”

“Sleep well, Lord Commander.”

He gave a wry smile which Sansa returned, and then she stepped inside her chambers. She knew that Jon would linger in front of her door for several minutes, making sure all was well, and then he would leave the private family wing, sending one of the Northmen to stand guard at her door until morning. Neither of them would sleep, let alone well. Their nights hadn’t been good since their betrothal had been broken.

Sansa’s handmaidens helped her prepare for bed. There wasn’t a point in trying to fall asleep, so she snuggled under the covers with a book. It was an old and heavy tome on the god-marked rulers of the Seven Kingdoms and Sansa tried to find a little bit of comfort in her reading. She wasn’t the only one whose life had been utterly disrupted by the mark.

The very first one happened to be a dragon-riding warrior queen Rhaenys Targaryen who had managed to outlive her siblings, conquer the whole continent and ascend the newly forged Iron Throne. It was a fascinating but brutal story of fire, blood, and sacrifices. Rhaenys’ rule had been full of ugly rebellions until the moment the gods had blessed her with their mark, sanctifying her rule, which had been the only thing that had finally convinced the rebels to bend the knee. The queen’s brother and husband had been killed and since the realm needed an heir, she had faced the situation Sansa herself was facing. Rhaenys had not wished to antagonize further the lords so precariously under her command by elevating one of them above the others, so she had applied to the gods for their help in choosing the Prince Consort.

Sansa sat up straighter in the bed and reread the part several times as a small dry smile started to form on her lips. The gods had answered their chosen’s pleading. In a very public ceremony in front of all gathered lords of Westeros, the gods had marked the future Prince Consort. Or to be more precise, each of the Seven had marked one Prince Consort that the particular god had wished to see standing next to the Iron Throne. The marked lords had been tied to the queen by magic so strong that it had bound their very souls together.

Soulbonds were not very common these days because the gods only rarely bestowed those gifts on the people for free. They usually wanted something in return for that privilege – like building a new sept most likely. Frowning thoughtfully, Sansa leafed through the old pages. In the last three hundred years, there had been seven god-marked High Kings and Queens – Sansa would be the eighth one – and only two of them had been already married when they had ascended the throne. The others had had to pick their consorts. To Sansa’s utter surprise, all her marked predecessors had not wished to insult the Great Houses and had asked the gods for their advice – and had received it.

So that’s how it had happened that three of the god-marked rulers had been soulbonded to more than one person. It was mind-blowing. She had known about the more relaxed approach to matrimony in Dorne and she had been educated as all highborn children were about the High Kings and their spouses… She had just never thought that some of them had been married to the monarchs at the same time with the blessing of the gods.

Sansa shut the book, put it on her bedside table and stared up at the ceiling for several long hours, completely lost in her thoughts. Could she do the same? Would she dare to call out to the gods and ask them for their help?

The gods had taken Jon from her, they had taken her life from her and demanded that she should go and rule a realm as divided as the Seven Kingdoms. The least they could do was to help her solve the stupid issue of the Prince Consort.

If she happened to shock all present lord and ladies by acquiring more than one husband… She grinned into the night. It just might be amusing enough to help her survive the beginning of her queenship without the man she loved by her side and in her bed. A tiny part of her hoped, however, that the gods would bind her to Jon. Her very soul ached for him even as she thought these thoughts.

If there was any mercy to be found among the Seven, she hoped they would bring her love back to her. In one way or another.

***

The guests had been arriving for the last two weeks and everyone who meant something in Westeros was gathered in the Great Sept for Sansa’s coronation. It was a pompous affair and she was incredibly grateful for the steady support of her family. The Starks had descended on King’s Landing like a pack of hungry wolves – if one was to believe what other southern lords were saying.

As if any of the Starks wanted to have anything to do with this mess. The Wolves of the North were notoriously straightforward and the political games the Southerners liked to play completely confounded them.

While Sansa wasn’t as bad as her father, she detested it.

People who had been pandering to the Small Council all those years were shaking in their boots. What would the new administration of the infamous Wolves of Winterfell bring? The last High King Jon III of the Arryns of King’s Landing had died young and left behind a realm on the brink of civil war. The only reason why the Arryns of the Vale hadn’t tried to claim the kingship was the distinct lack of the High King’s mark on them – and the fact that the other Great Houses would certainly rise against them.

Without the blessing of the gods, no new ruling dynasty could be established. And now, the ‘Wolf Queen’ was about to ascend the Iron Throne.

She smiled coldly as the intricate bronze crown was placed upon her brow. It had been made to resemble the crowns of the Kings of Winter, her Stark ancestors, so Sansa would always remember who she was and where she came from. The toadies were right to be afraid – Sansa was more than willing to do her best in her new role. It had cost her everything, after all.

The cheer that rose when the septon introduced her as Sansa of House Stark, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, was deafening. She could swear that the whole sept shook with the might of it. The lesser lords seemed to be in a good mood, seeing her ascension as something positive. Pity that the Great Houses probably disagreed with them.

Gazing briefly up toward the high windows of the sept, she closed her eyes. There was no turning back now – she could feel it, the gentle humming coming from the very stones of the temple, echoing in her own heart and mind.

But could she ever dare to actually demand something of them? Was she that desperate? Sansa wasn’t sure. Despite her thoughts yesterday, she had been raised to worship the Seven with humility and obedience – and to be honest, in fear of their power. The gods’ punishments were a terrible thing to behold.

A single beam of sunlight shone inside and landed on her as Sansa rose to her feet. Her hair and crown caught fire and she could see the amazed expressions on the faces closest to her. But they all blurred into a large mass of people. She couldn’t be sure who was who as she gazed at who were now truly her people.

Clenching her right hand into a fist, the one that bore the god-mark, she inhaled and nodded to them slightly. The masses bowed.

“Long live the queen!” called out a strong voice from among the crowd. She supposed it was one of the Council members but she couldn’t locate him. In reply, every throat chanted the same, “Long live the queen!”

Again and again, they cried those words until she made it to the entrance to the sept. Outside, more people were waiting, more people were cheering and Sansa felt for the briefest of moments almost intimidated by the sheer number of her subjects.

“Easy, my queen,” Jon whispered from behind and he joined her as she descended the steps of the sept. “I have your back.”

Feeling relief, she waved and smiled at the people as she continued down the steps. Then Sansa spent an hour in an open carriage on the ride through the streets of King’s Landing. Through it all, a silent gold and white shadow followed her, always at her back, dark eyes scanning the crowds for any potential threat to the life of his queen.

Sansa felt Jon’s presence acutely but she never turned, never dared to acknowledge him by a look or a word. She was afraid that if she caught only one glance of him, she would sob uncontrollably. That was something she couldn’t and wouldn’t do.

Not now and not ever. From this moment on, her old life did not matter and only the realm remained.

***

The night was pleasant, the air smelled of blooming flowers and stars twinkled above the canopy of green trees. That was something she could get used to, this mild weather and warm summer evenings, she mused as she sipped her watered wine and smiled at the performance of the mummers on her coronation feast.

Her parents were forced to socialize with others – the nightmare had begun for them but they were determined to ease Sansa into her new role in any way they could. Robb went to check on his very pregnant wife and Sansa was sure that her younger siblings were causing mischief somewhere as they were prone to do.

“You look like you were born for this, my queen,” commented a voice from above her. Sansa was startled and turned to see Lord Lannister standing to her left, his green gaze cold and calculating.

She had met him only briefly when he had welcomed her in King’s Landing and congratulated her on her new position. That had been a month ago. Even that brief meeting had been enough to make her realize that this particular Council member would be her greatest enemy. Her appearance had put a stop to his free reign over the Seven Kingdoms, after all.

“Careful, Lord Lannister,” she said, her tone only half-joking. “If you are seen speaking to me, speculations would fly.”

Would truly anyone in their right mind that she would connect herself to that man? The animosity between the Starks and the Lannisters was legendary and the man was old enough to be her grandfather.

He snorted softly, sharing her thoughts, and sat down next to her. “That’s the most ridiculous notion I have heard in quite some time, Your Grace.”

“Aren’t all these men simply dying to call men their wife?” she asked innocently. 

“Most probably,” he agreed and they spent the next moment or two in silence. She could see that the Master of Laws was carefully choosing his next words. It wouldn’t do, antagonizing the High Queen the very first evening of her rule.

“I’m actually here to offer advice on that front, my queen, if you would indulge me. I’ve prepared a list of the most beneficial matches you could make. For the good of the realm, of course.”

“Of course,” she smirked and was startled when Lord Lannister returned the smirk knowingly. He was a dangerous man. “And who are those eligible matches you think I should consider, my lord?”

“It would be wise to connect yourself to one of the other Great Houses,” he said and Sansa almost expected him to fish out the list out of his pocket. He didn’t. Lord Lannister reached for the wine jug instead and offered to refill her glass for her.

“Ah, there’s Theon. He spent several years at Winterfell and we know each other quite well,” she said, smiling and shaking her head at the wine.

Lord Lannister poured a cup and took a sip, stretching out his long legs under the table. It seemed he was determined to stay a little longer if he was making himself comfortable. Sansa couldn’t say the same – she was getting increasingly tenser in his company. They truly did catch the attention of many eyes – she felt Jon’s worried gaze burning through her the most. Gods, she was glad that Lord Lannister didn’t feel the need to even mention her broken betrothal to Jon.

“Greyjoy is a useless half-wit,” said Lord Lannister shortly. “And he is the heir to the Iron Islands. I would strongly advise against marrying the heir apparent to any of the Lord Paramounts. It would blur the lines of succession and create quite a mess in the future.”

“Well, that leaves me with second sons and other lesser men. Maybe I should just go and marry one of my father’s bannermen. At least I know them well.”

Lord Lannister gave Sansa a sharp look and she was certain that he knew that she was baiting him. He had several nephews and a younger son and grandson himself.

“Now that would be an insult to every member of the Great Houses unless the bannerman wielded considerable power. That leaves you with only two options. So, who would it be? Manderly or Bolton? Unattached is only Lord Bolton himself and his menace of a younger son and even this far south we do know of their reputations. Please, my queen, do not insult my intelligence by playing these games with me. Let us be serious about this.”

“Oh, I suppose you would suggest young Lancel, then. He’s rich, well-connected and quite handsome…” Sansa disliked how Lord Lannister seemed to know everything about her situation. “Not to mention that he has a brain of the size of a peanut. He’d be the perfect puppet for you.”

“I see you decided to be difficult, Your Grace.” Lord Lannister clenched his jaw and silently finished his wine. “And here I thought you are capable of seeing the larger picture. If you’ll excuse me…”

And with that, the arrogant man rose and was gone. Sansa wanted to bang her head against the table as she watched him stride away. She had just antagonized the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms, the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and a father-in-law to another Lord Paramount.

“That’s a job well done,” said a female voice with amusement. “I’d congratulate you on putting that man in his place but I’m afraid that you have just made a powerful enemy.”

“Lady Olenna.” Sansa turned to her right and nodded graciously at the elderly woman smirking at her from the shadows. “Share a cup of wine with me.”

“I thought you’d never ask, Your Grace.”

Sansa poured for the Tyrell matriarch a cup of wine – and under her watchful gaze, offered to mix it with water. Lady Olenna nodded her approval and both women sipped their drinks in silence for several moments.

“I suppose you are also here to offer me one of your grandsons, am I right?”

“What a clever little thing you are,” agreed Lady Olenna. “But my grandsons are twits and I wouldn’t wish them on my worst enemy. If you were a man, Your Grace, my Margaery would be perfectly suited for the role of a Royal Consort. However, since you are a woman, I’m afraid that I’m here only to offer you my honest counsel.”

There was a spark in Lady Olenna’s eyes. The Tyrell knew that Sansa knew – just like Lord Lannister – and found it amusing.

“So, who would you suggest, then?”

“I don’t doubt that your dear Aunt Lysa would fling her son on you as soon as possible,” started the matriarch. “But as Tywin – he’s such a dear, isn’t he? – pointed out, that’s a bad idea… as if the Arryns needed even more conviction that the crown is theirs. For all our sakes, never consider an Arryn again. They did such a miserable job the last time I shudder to think what stupidities the next generation would be capable of.”

Sansa chuckled and nodded. “I have no intention of marrying Robin, you can be sure of that, my dear Lady Olenna.”

“Thank the gods!” The exclamation sounded gleeful.

“So, if you are not here to suggest your grandsons, who do you suggest, then?” asked Sansa curiously. She was willing to concede that she enjoyed her talk with Lady Olenna much more than her talk with Lord Lannister.

“Oh, honestly, I couldn’t care less whom you marry if it’s not a Tyrell. I’m making a friend with the High Queen and that, I believe, counts for something. We women, especially in this male-dominated world, need to stick together. Of course, convincing the other fools that I’m trying to make you marry one of my grandsons is also fun. Just imagine the wheels in their heads turning at the very idea of such a union. The panic that their chances are slipping right through their fingers…”

“The Reach is a powerful ally.”

“And Loras really is a twit. I suppose Willas isn’t that bad but I’m not going to offer you my eldest, as we’ve already covered.”

“But you are offering me the younger one, am I correct?”

“Since you asked…” Lady Olenna smirked. “Yes, he’s yours if you would wish it. He’s a very good-looking and sweet, too – very flowery, one could say. The boy took our sigil entirely too seriously.”

Sansa supposed that she stepped into that one all on her own. She snorted and bowed her head to the winner. “It seems there’s a lot I yet need to learn.”

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear,” said Lady Olenna and patted Sansa’s hand. “I’ve had five decades of practice. I’ll send Margaery to converse with you. She’d be delighted and you’ll learn a trick or two. Now, I believe there are others who’re dying to talk to you. Have a pleasant evening, Your Grace.”

While Lord Lannister had left Sansa’s company insulted and without getting what he had wanted, Lady Olenna glided away happily content – she had pushed her grandson on Sansa more successfully, made a good impression on the young queen and smuggled her granddaughter into Sansa’s company in the future. Yes, Sansa could imagine the Reach as an ally – the conversations alone would be amusing if nothing else.

The Master of Coin approached Sansa a minute later. Lord Baelish slithered closer with a plate of lemon cakes and smiled at her broadly. “Good evening, Your Grace. Would you mind if I joined you?”

She wondered what he wanted – as far as Sansa could tell, there wasn’t a single male relative that Lord Baelish could promote. But he brought cakes and for that alone, Sansa was willing to listen to him.

“Of course, my lord. Take a seat.”

He did so and arranged the plate in front of her. “Your mother let it slip that lemon cakes are your particular weakness. I hope I’m not overstepping…”

“You can never overstep if you have one of these,” Sansa reassured him with a small smile and reached for one of the cakes, breaking it in two.

“I’ll keep that in mind…” Lord Baelish trailed off and watched her chew and swallow the first bite. Sansa was uncomfortably aware of the fact that there probably was lemon filling dribbling on her chin and quickly reached for a napkin.

“Pardon me, my lord.”

“It’s nothing, Your Grace. Glad to know I managed to please you.”

There was a moment of silence when his eyes lingered and then he turned his attention to their guests, grinning. “What a strange evening, isn’t it? I debated whether or not to approach you tonight with those assumptions flying around like dragonflies.”

“What are the most popular ones, my lord?” Sansa smirked and followed his gaze. Riverrun’s delegation was currently observing the queen closely and Sansa winked and waved at her uncle who had the decency to blush and turn away.

“My dear friend Varys keeps a better track of them, I’m afraid. Some are betting that you would fall for the charms of the golden Baratheon heir, or his handsome uncle perhaps. Some evil tongues even suggest that Lord Stannis will throw his barren wife down the nearest tower for the opportunity to court you… But to be honest, your conversation with Lord Lannister fascinated quite a lot of people.”

“Oh, I see. Do you think red and gold would suit me?”

“I wouldn’t want you to suffer in marriage to that man under any circumstances.” Lord Baelish turned to look at her and the expression in his face was utterly serious. “Whatever the Master of Laws offered you, it is not worth it.”

Sansa blinked and then flushed. It seemed that there were people who could possibly believe that Lord Lannister had been promoting himself. How ridiculous.

“If people are willing to believe that I’m considering marrying Lord Lannister only because I have spoken to him, aren’t you afraid that they would assume the same about you?”

Something dark flashed in his gaze before he chuckled. “Oh, no! I’m sure our dear ladies and lords are wondering whose family I’m promoting right now, Your Grace. No one is foolish enough to believe that you would consider a proposal from someone like me. I have no lands or titles, after all, and the influence I have at the court is only thanks to your benevolence.”

A chill ran down Sansa’s spine when he finished talking. While Lord Baelish appeared sincere and almost jovial, something was off about him – she just couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

“And are you, my lord? Promoting a family?”

“Ah!” He raised his hands in surrender, chuckling. “Guilty as charged, Your Grace. What gave me away?”

“Everyone who has approached me so far was pushing their relatives on me.”

“Hmm, I’m afraid I don’t have a relative hidden up my sleeve, but… Your Aunt Lysa asked a favor of me.”

Lady Olenna was right. Here it was. Sansa had just expected Lysa to come herself, dragging Robin along – not to send Lord Baelish.

“Why would she do that, my lord, and not come herself?”

“We are friends, your aunt, and mother and me,” he started. “Lysa – I hope you forgive me the familiar address, Your Grace, but we grew up together in Riverrun… Lysa wished to avoid gossip and speculations. Robin is a sensitive young man and should he hear what others are capable of saying… it would hurt his gentle soul greatly.”

In other words, her Cousin Robin was a sissy, just as the whole Stark family had always thought.

“I thank you for your consideration and devotion to my family, my lord,” Sansa said, smiling at him slightly. “I hope that I can count on you in the same way my mother and aunt could.”

“Of course.” He bowed. “I live to serve. I can see that the night is getting wearisome. Should I call for your guards…?”

“No need for that, Lord Baelish.” Jon appeared from behind Sansa’s chair and offered his hand to the queen. “Her Grace is in good hands, never left unprotected.”

“So I can see!” Jovially, Lord Baelish grinned, sprang up from his seat and with a bow left their company. His parting words were, “Good night, Your Grace, Ser Jon.”

“Are you ready to retire, my queen?” asked her knight, his gaze still trained at the retreating figure of the Master of Coin.

“Yes, I think I will. It was an exciting day.” Sansa grasped Jon’s warm rough hand and let him pull her to her feet. With a bow, he took a step back as she addressed the gathering and made her excuses. 

They walked in silence until they were sure that nobody from the feast could hear them. Then Jon whispered, “Oh, gods, I hate how they treat you and it’s been only a few hours.”

“If you think this was bad, wait until tomorrow when more lords gather their courage. Jon, I don’t think I can stand much more of this…”

Her steps faltered and she felt Jon trailing his fingers down her back in a featherlike touch. Then he heaved a shuddering breath. She didn’t know how she could stand it, him not really touching her anymore either.

“Maybe…” He cleared his throat. “Maybe you should select your husband quickly, then. The Tyrells are… they aren’t that bad, I suppose. Much better than the Lannisters, that’s for sure.”

Sansa whirled to face him. “I don’t want to marry Loras Tyrell!”

“Gods, don’t I know it?” Jon shook his head and gave her a sad smile. “But you have to marry someone, Sansa, and we both know that. You need to find the lesser evil, someone you can at least tolerate, my dearest queen.”

She wanted to punch him – Jon himself taught her how to throw a decent punch – and she wanted to kiss him at the same time. High Queens couldn’t afford to do any of those, though, so she turned on her heel and continued silently inside the Red Keep.

His footsteps were not audible but she heard the occasional clink of his armor that indicated that Jon faithfully followed her. One thing was certain. Sansa couldn’t take more of conversations like this. The very idea of her spending time with any of the young eligible lords was even worse. She had no need to get to know them, it made her want to scream.

Sansa had debated whether or not she should ask the gods. Here and now, she decided that she would. The first thing Sansa of House Stark would do in her role of the High Queen would not be naming the Queen’s Guard after all.

No.

High Queen Sansa of House Stark would address the gods themselves in front of the lords of her new realm and ask their advice. Tomorrow morning, she will either have her new husband chosen for her, or she would show the lords her religious side in a vain attempt to escape these matchmaking machinations.

***

She had asked the lords to gather in the throne room in the morning and she was sure that some of them hated the sharp morning sun streaming through the windows. Sansa suppressed her smirk and rose from the throne, addressing them for the first time as their queen.

“I called this meeting with only one purpose in mind,” she started. “None of us wishes to see the throne empty again. I am well aware of my responsibilities to the realm and I realize that to fulfill one of those, I need to find a husband as soon as possible. That’s the reason why are you all gathered here this morning.”

Her father took an alarmed step forward, his expression startled. Sansa shook her head at him and Mother thankfully grabbed his hand and stopped him from approaching.

The rest of the lords and ladies murmured in excitement. Was it possible that the queen had already decided on her Prince Consort?

Sansa’s lips twitched as she watched the crowd. Lord Lannister was standing in the first row and was glaring at her. Lady Olenna was looking pleased. Lord Baliesh, in the second row, appeared smug – just like her little Cousin Robin and her Aunt Lysa. Did they really expect that their words had swayed Sansa’s mind?

Well.

“The decision is fundamental to the future of the realm so after long and careful consideration, I decided to adhere to a historical tradition first. As some of you might know, my predecessors who found themselves facing the same decision as I do today showed great humility and obedience to the gods who had honored them with their marks.” Sansa fell silent and enjoyed immensely the dawning understanding in some of the faces in the crowd. The Grand Maester especially looked quite ill. She believed that Pycelle was Lord Lannister’s favorite toady.

Turning her back to the gathering, Sansa slowly lowered herself to her knees in front of the Iron Throne. Behind the ugliest chair in the memory of Westeros, the seven-pointed star with a little crown was depicted and she bowed to it. Hands clasped in front of her in prayer, Sansa closed her eyes, hoping that she was not just making a complete fool of herself by doing this.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” Sansa said, her voice strong and clear. “I ask you for your wisdom and guidance for without you I am lost. The Iron Throne needs an heir. I humbly ask you to choose the father of the next High King or Queen, the other half of my soul that would complete me and help me fulfill your wishes and will. If it would please you, bestow the blessing of your mark on him as you have done to me and make us one for eternity.”

They weren’t her words, not exactly. Those words had been burnt in Sansa’s memory since the moment she had read that damned book, since the moment the insane hope that she just might get her Jon back had taken root.

The silence in the throne room was absolute. No one dared to move, or even breathe. Sansa could hear her heart hammering away in her chest as the moments passed by. Still, nothing happened. 

Tears of defeat gathered at the corners of her eyes and she swallowed hard, letting her head fall further down before trying to gather enough strength to rise to her feet and face her vassals.

Her mind froze, however, when strange humming filled the air. It was the same resonating sound she had heard yesterday at her coronation…

Then someone gasped.

Sansa turned around quickly to see seven flickering columns of light on the steps leading up to the throne. As one, every single person in the room fell to their knees and Sansa pressed a shaking hand to her mouth.

The lights shimmered momentarily and then turned into balls of energy and shot toward the people. Each moved into a different direction, zigzagging above the astonished crowd as if they judged them and searched for the right person.

Suddenly and with a dull gong-like sound, the pinkish ball of light smashed right into one of Sansa’s guards at the bottom of the steps.

The man gasped and collapsed on all four. At the same time, Sansa felt a burning sensation on her forearm. Tearing her sleeve away, she was stunned to see that a little dove, the symbol of the Maiden, was seared into her flesh.

Something inside of her hurt, there was a pulling and tearing and stretching sensation that left her grimacing in pain.

Breathing heavily, Sansa looked back to the guard, a watery smile forming on her face as her eyes drank in the utterly shocked expression on Jon’s face. The Maiden had chosen him for Sansa’s husband. She could never thank the goddess enough for fixing her broken heart…

Then another gong went off and another man grunted in pain as he fell down.

Hissing, Sansa tore her eyes away from Jon and watched as a second mark appeared on her forearm, right above the first one. A hammer, the Smith’s symbol, flashed red like fire on her white skin. Again, something tugged at her insides, insistent, painful.

Oh, gods. She was afraid to look whom the Smith had chosen for her but she wasn’t surprised any longer. She had asked all seven gods and all seven of them had answered. She should have expected them to have different opinions on the future Prince Consort. She had read that it was more likely to happen than not, after all.

Yet another gong sounded and this time, her left forearm started to burn. Turning her attention to her other hand, Sansa carefully pushed away the fabric. She watched a pair of scales flashing golden for a moment as the Father made his choice and one of the lords fell to the ground in her periphery.

Still unwilling to see what fate had brought her now, Sansa bit her lower lip and watched anxiously her hands, waiting for the burning. She wasn’t disappointed – in a matter of moments, four more symbols burnt themselves onto the skin of her forearms.

At the end of it, she could hardly breathe, her heart felt like bursting and an unexplainable weariness settled over her. Her very soul was hurting, bound to seven other souls. Sansa had trouble keeping her eyes open and the very idea of trying to stand up was ridiculous.

“My queen? Sansa?” Jon asked gently as he knelt next to her. Taking her hands in his, he inspected the burns with bright eyes. They were angry and red and it would take weeks for them to heal. “How are you feeling?”

“I… I don’t think… I’m so tired, Jon,” she answered in a voice she couldn’t recognize as hers. It was hoarse and too thin and fragile. The need to close her eyes was almost overwhelming. “I’ll sleep… Just… for a moment…”

The last thing she heard was a familiar voice suggesting, “Pick the queen up, Ser Jon. We should move this to a more private setting.”

Sweet darkness welcomed her then and for the first time in months, the High Queen slept, safe in the arms of her love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yeah, she’s gotten seven of them *grins* Can anyone guess who was the familiar voice? Or who are the other marked men? (Don't let the tags fool you, though)  
> So… It works as a one-shot and you can imagine almost anyone as Sansa’s new Prince Consorts, but I know which gods picked which guys and why… And I’ll be happy to share the fun with you if you’d like that. I’m just a little apprehensive about going through with it. Let me know if you like the world and would be interested in me continuing the story, please :)  
> Love you all, Mad Mage  
> PS: I’m working on my other stories, too *winks* I just needed to get this one out of my system first.
> 
> EDIT 16/1/20  
> Since this is officially a multichapter story, I’m sticking to the same format, so Sansa gets a quote about her, too, spoken by Petyr Baelish in canon. Thank you for reading ;)


	2. The Father's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did the Father pick…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I was amazed by your comments and I just had to sit down and write the next chapter. So… I hope it works out just as well ;)

PART ONE, CHAPTER TWO

**_The Father’s Choice_ **

_“There is no creature on earth half so terrifying as a truly just man.”_

The pain still lingered even as the burning slowly faded away. He was breathing hard – and one look at the men staggering up the steps and to the queen let him know he wasn’t the only one. His limbs were shaking and he felt hollowed out – more than usual – and at the same time uncomfortably whole, both light as if he could float away at any moment and also heavy as if tied to something solid and warm.

It was a terrifying feeling.

There was an unexplainable need to join them, to get closer to the crumpled figure in front of the throne. He wasn’t sure how to fight the urge, so he followed, each step sending shockwaves through his body.

Stannis ignored the pain and did not reach over his heart to rub at the tender spot. He suspected what he would find there and scowled deeply, dark eyes observing the severe burns on the queen’s arms.

Stupid child, he wanted to roar at her but held back, clenching his jaw and fisting his hands. Instead, he watched as the Targaryen youth fell to his knees and inspected the damage.

The burns were no trifling matter and it was somehow wrong to see the girl’s flesh marred by such ugliness. Those were wounds more suited for the likes of him – warriors and scoundrels who deserved the pain, not young maidens who had been forced to shoulder responsibility for a mess that wasn’t theirs to clean up.

The gods were cruel and ridiculous and he wished it was possible to go and run a flaming sword through one – or all seven – of them. Yes, that’s what he wished as he watched the boy gently cradle the sleeping queen in his arms.

What could possibly be worse than to bind a young little thing like her to seven men? Glaring around at the other chosen consorts, Stannis ground his teeth. What a selection they made. If he were the queen, he would jump from the highest tower of the keep. As it was, he was probably going to murder half of them before the day was over – and then fling himself down that said tower.

It didn’t even cross his mind not to follow the young Taragaryen – Jon, correct? – as he headed for the door. Stannis wasn’t exactly sure why he thought that it would be a good idea to join the others. He just knew that he needed to be present because there were obviously things that they had to discuss among them.

He would try his best not to yell at the queen the moment she gained consciousness. The anger simmering just beneath the surface told him he would most probably fail.

“Husband!” His wife’s screech stopped Stannis in his tracks.

Closing his eyes, he swallowed. Yes, that was one of the things that needed to be discussed, and one of the things that made him so livid at the present moment. He was already married – had been for the last two decades. What foolish god had decided to pick him? He didn’t even worship the Seven, damn it!

Well aware of the looks he was getting from the gathering, Stannis breathed in and out through his nose in a vain attempt to calm himself. Then he turned and gritted out through clenched teeth, “My lady?”

Selyse looked as shocked as the rest of the crowd. Her wide eyes were trained on him and she was nervously tugging at her necklace. At a loss, she struggled for a moment before asking thinly, “What is the meaning of this?”

“I’ll be damned if I know,” he told her shortly – maybe too shortly. But he couldn’t gentle his tone, not when Robert was staring at him from behind Selyse’s shoulder. His mouth was hanging open and the utter disbelief etched into his brother’s face was making Stannis’s blood boil.

He had had to endure Robert’s moronic comments about the queen for the past two weeks. What a pity that Robert was already married. What Robert wouldn’t do for the opportunity to woo the High Queen. Who would have guessed how Ned’s little girl wasn’t so little anymore? Did the carpet match the curtains? There were dozens of other remarks on the queen’s appearance that Stannis had already forgotten – but he did remember how Robert, deep in his cups, boasted that should the queen ask, he was the right man to warm her during those cold northern nights.

Did Robert think that Stannis wasn’t up to that task? Well. It seemed that one of the gods had a different opinion. It still didn’t lessen his ire as he glared right back at Robert and then forced himself to pay attention to Selyse.

“We will speak of this later. Now, I have to attend to the queen.” Realizing that he was the only one who had stayed behind in the throne room, Stannis grimaced and glared at the people closest to him. he didn’t have time for that, Stannis needed to see the queen.

“The spectacle is over! Go find something else to gawk at!” His voice resonated through the room like thunder. Stannis was already marching forward when he stopped suddenly, turned to face the crowd once more and barked, “Do not disturb the queen unless the bloody realm is attacked. An official statement will be released as soon as this mess is sorted out.”

When Stannis reached the queen’s private wing, he had worked himself in a state of utter fury. It was ridiculous to feel slighted by Robert’s look of disbelief alone. It was expectable to feel angry and confused because of the marking. He had no idea what to make of the situation and he sure did not look forward to trying play nice with some of the other marked idiots. Pacing back and forth in the corridor, Stannis debated if it really was a good idea to join the others or not.

Oh, gods! Did they do this to Stannis to spite him? That was most likely it. A mockery. A punishment for his sins. Although a small part of Stannis was unreasonably pleased that he had been chosen – him, not his bloody brothers and not any of the other stunned lords in the throne room – he wasn’t blind to the fact how utterly unfit he was to be anything to the queen. He was already married! He wasn’t even an exemplary husband. He wasn’t a faithful worshipper. He wasn’t even interested in the power that the position of the Prince Consort brought.

Again he asked himself, what sort of a demented god would possibly choose him?

“Lord Stannis?”

He stopped his pacing and whirled to face the Targaryen youth. Stannis remembered hearing rumors that the boy and the queen had been betrothed before her mark had appeared. Now the knight had gotten his love back. Stannis honestly doubted that he of all people would be needed to be anything to the queen with six other husbands – one of which the queen loved – at her side.

The idea of returning back to the Stormlands with Selyse and living the rest of his life in a cold, childless marriage with his dejected wife, was making him sick. It had been everything he had known for the last two decades and while it wasn’t what he had wanted as a young man, Stannis had grown accustomed to it. So why did it suddenly feel so wrong?

He did not like the queen. She was beautiful, that was true and only a blind man couldn’t see that – but she was too beautiful for the likes of him and the only thing Queen Sansa stirred up in Stannis was the loyalty he owed to his liege, his queen.

“Ser Jon,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “How is she?”

The knight shifted his weight, grimacing. It was obvious that the young man was uncomfortable by the whole situation and Stannis couldn’t blame him. He had never been in love but he supposed that if he were, he would detest the idea of sharing said love with several other men just because the gods said so.

“The queen is asleep and according to the Grand Maester, she was simply exhausted by her bonding to seven men.” Jon finally found his words and glanced away. “The others are already gone. Once they made sure that Sansa is going to be alright, the pull lessened. With emotions so raw, we agreed that we wouldn’t try and solve the situation yet.”

Oh, the pull. That explained his irrational wish to be near the queen. Stannis snorted. He hadn’t needed to be present to imagine how tense the others had been. The queen would probably not be pleased to wake up and find that her consorts had tried to murder each other…

Stannis knew he should leave. Knowing that the queen was just tired truly had lessened his need to be near her. The pull could and would complicate things, though. He was no expert on soul bonds but its existence definitely negated any possibility of him returning to the Stormlands. He doubted that he would be able to function properly if he was not in a reasonable distance to the queen.

Did any of the others feel the same? If one of them died, would the queen suffer the pain from the severed bond as was usual in normal soul bonds? In return, would Stannis and the others share that agony with her? What a bloody mess.

“Lord Stannis?” asked the young man tentatively.

“Ser Jon?” He refocused on the boy and they stared at each other for a moment. Stannis had no idea what he was still doing there in the corridor. He should go and somehow try to speak to Selyse. But he had no idea what to tell his wife. They didn’t love each other and their marriage had been nothing but misery for both of them. The Seven knew how he had sinned against his sacred vows – his wife knew, too. Life had been unfair to her, Stannis had been, and this humiliating end was not something Selyse deserved.

“Do you want to see Sansa?” Jon offered cautiously.

He didn’t need to see the queen but before Stannis knew what he was doing, he nodded and took a step forward. He perhaps wanted to.

Jon bowed slightly and opened the door to the queen’s chambers. Her handmaidens were huddled in the corner, watching them enter. News traveled fast and the girls jumped up and curtseyed to them before they started whispering furiously.

Stannis tried to ignore the maids and the looks they directed his way.

Jon led him through the parlor and to the bedroom. He didn’t knock, just opened the door softly and entered, leaving it ajar for Stannis. Hesitating for a moment, he took a deep breath and followed the younger man inside.

He didn’t know what he had expected to find but the same breath he had just taken left his body abruptly when he entered and laid his eyes on the queen. It pained him, surprisingly, to see her figure resting there on the bed. She was no girl, no child – that was obvious. Queen Sansa was a young woman, striking even in her sleep. Stannis couldn’t conceive why any mad god would bind such a woman to him.

Jon dropped into a chair in the corner and rubbed at his eyes tiredly, watching him with exhaustion written over his handsome face. The boy – no, the young man – was much more suited to be bound to the queen. They were young and good-looking and loved each other.

“You look dead on your feet,” Stannis observed. “Go get some rest.”

“I’m not leaving her side until she’s awake.”

“I’ll guard her in your stead.” The words were out before Stannis had even thought about them but he refused to take them back. It was his duty, wasn’t it? She was his queen and it seemed that she was his new wife, too. He was more than capable of guarding her for an hour or two – Stannis had had a full night’s sleep, unlike Ser Jon who looked like he hadn't slept in months.

Jon assessed him with a small frown between his eyebrows and then resolutely crossed his arms over his chest. “The other choices… they left me quite stunned and with all respect, I don’t know a thing about you, Lord Stannis. So, I’m not leaving you alone with the queen until I do.”

“Careful, Ser Jon,” growled Stannis, grinding his teeth. “You’re not speaking to some low-life but to the queen’s other soulbonded spouse. If you can’t trust me with her life, who else do you think you can? A random guard that can be bribed?”

The young man opened his mouth to retort, but Stannis continued, “I’ll rather die than allow any harm to come to her. If you want me to swear it, I will. Name any of the gods you wish to bear witness to my oath.”

“I think you’re right, I’ll need someone else I can trust with Sansa’s life.” Jon nodded, rising to his feet. “You have a reputation of an honorable man, Lord Stannis, so I apologize for doubting you. You’re the best of the bunch, I guess.”

Stannis felt a wave of shame coursing through him at those words and he bit the inside of his cheek. How wrong Ser Jon was – but Stannis wasn’t about to let him know that. It was his burden to bear. He offered his hand to the younger man instead, saying, “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Me too, Lord Stannis. Sansa is…” Jon felt silent and turned to gaze at the queen. Stannis’s stomach clenched at the look of pure devotion and love he saw in Jon’s face at the moment, and the older man wondered if he had ever even come close to having that. Stannis was sure there wasn’t a single person whom he could have loved like that, and he was equally sure that no one except for perhaps his own mother had ever directed those emotions toward him.

“She’s everything,” continued the smitten youth. “The best queen you could imagine; kind and gentle and caring… And one day, the best mother in the world.”

They shook hands and with one last glance at the queen and a grateful nod toward Stannis, Jon Targaryen left the bedroom, softly closing the door behind him.

Stannis waited until he was sure that the younger man was gone before he collapsed in the empty chair and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Jon’s parting words about children made him uncomfortable – perhaps more than this entire situation had done.

He could imagine that he would love his child more than anything in this world but being married to Selyse had robbed him of that opportunity. His previous wife had suffered several miscarriages and then they hadn’t been able to conceive for several years – back when they had even tried for a child.

Sitting here in the semidarkness of the queen’s bedchamber, he felt like chocking with bitterness. His new wife was young and beautiful and came from a large family. The chances were that she would be able to give birth to several healthy children… And wasn’t it ironic? Even now he would be robbed of the opportunity to father any children with the queen.

What woman in their right mind would bed an old, disagreeable man like Stannis if she had already found the love of her life in a handsome, honorable and young knight like Jon?

Chuckling darkly to himself, Stannis thought that perhaps a trip to the highest tower wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

***

He had no idea how long he had sat there and brooded but the sun moved over the skies and no longer shone on this side of the keep. He went to the windows to move the curtains and get a breath of fresh air, brittle like glass and feeling defeated.

A hesitant knock sounded on the door and Stannis whirled around and marched to it, yanking it open as quietly as possible. “Yes?”

A handmaiden was there and she flinched and shrunk back, stuttering, “Pa-pardon me, my lord, b-but you have a visitor.”

What was she talking about? Stannis couldn’t have a visitor in the queen’s chambers, could he? He was preparing to question the girl when he caught a glimpse of the person in the parlor. He swallowed, glanced back at the sleeping queen and moved into the room, closing the door.

“My lady,” he managed to force out and grimaced. He had completely forgotten about Selyse after promising that they would talk later. Turning to the maid, he asked, “Leave us.”

Selyse waited until the servant girl was gone and only then she braved to approach closer. Sitting down in one of the chairs at the table, she refused to meet his eyes and studied the empty fireplace instead. “I waited in our chamber for some time. I waited and waited and then I realized that you were not coming back. Nothing can be as it was before.”

“Selyse…” Stannis wasn’t sure what to say or what to do. He joined her at the table and reached for some grapes to eat as he thought about what to tell her. Finally, he managed to say, “I never wanted you to suffer through the uncertainty alone…”

“Well, I understand that you had other concerns on your mind.”

He flinched. That sounded remarkably like a reproach but when he looked at her, Selyse wore a serene expression free of accusations.

“When I realized that you wouldn’t come, I sought the High Septon’s counsel,” she told him curtly. “I know everything, Stannis. In the eyes of the Seven, the mockery of a marriage we shared is annulled and you are from this day until your last day – and beyond – bound to the High Queen.”

There was a moment of silence as Stannis thought over her words. It was nothing he didn’t suspect already. He was married to the queen, the poor soul, and he was bound to her for eternity in the eyes of gods and men. Just like six other men were. Killing the others was officially out of the question, wasn’t it? He doubted that any of the others would want to be labeled a kinslayer, either. If the gods could do this to them, what would be their punishment for such a sin?

“I have wronged you,” he said. “Not only today but…”

“Yes,” she agreed and then clasped his hand for the briefest of moments before letting go. “When we first married, Stannis, I thought you were the best of men and I still think that you could be. Just not with me.”

Her words – just like Jon’s – shamed him and Stannis bowed his head, his shoulders hunched and jaw clenched. It was like a dagger straight to his heart. Facing away from Selyse, he forced out, “With whom then? The High Queen?”

“She is young and beautiful and everything you could love,” mused Selyse and Stannis could swear that she was not driving the blade deeper and deeper on purpose – but he wasn’t sure anymore of anything. “She’s everything I wasn’t.”

“That’s not… That’s not true…”

“Of course it is. You and I, we both know that there never was anything but duty between us, Stannis. I’m grateful to the queen for this, for taking you away from me. It’s a relief, don’t you see?”

He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t meant as an insult but he was slowly failing. He had known that he had hurt his wife, shamed and wronged her and disrespected her… Stannis had just not suspected that Selyse had it in her to retaliate.

“What…” He cleared his throat and frowned. “What are you going to do? Are you going back to your family?”

“No. I’ll join the Silent Sisters. I believe that after today, I can’t doubt anymore the existence of the Seven. Spending the rest of my life in prayers and servitude to the gods is something I want to do.”

After her marriage to him, serving the Stranger was something she wanted to do? Gods, Stannis had failed, hadn’t he? It stung. He didn’t have any words left to say to Selyse and she seemed to sense it.

She rose from the chair and lingered for a moment, Then she put her hand on Stannis’s shoulder and said, “I ask one thing of you, my lord. Tell me that you will treat the queen better than you treated me. She’s so young, Stannis, and some of the other consorts… Promise me this, please.”

Startled, Stannis turned to gaze at her and was surprised to see genuine concern in her eyes. Humbled, he nodded, placing his hand over hers for a moment. “You have my word.”

“Good,” she said and turned away. Walking to the door, she said over her shoulder, her last parting words, “I took the liberty of dismissing Lady Melisandre from your services. You don’t need any false gods or any other red women anymore. Farewell, Stannis.”

“Goodbye, Selyse,” whispered Stannis. When the door closed behind her, he tightly shut his eyes, his shoulders shaking, face contorted in a painful grimace.

***

Sansa woke up to darkness. There was only single candle lit on the small table next to the door and the rest of her bedchamber was lost in shadows. She sat up slowly and spotting Jon snoring softly in the corner of the room, she heaved a sigh and snuggled back into the warm covers.

It wasn’t a dream. She had done it, she had asked the gods for their advice and they had given her seven men to help her rule the realm. It was still shocking but she was slowly getting used to the idea.

Rising her arms in the air, she grimaced. Both her forearms were heavily bandaged and the marks still hurt. It was so different from the first time but it was to be expected. The gods were doing her a favor by choosing the consorts, she should not be surprised that the marks needed to heal naturally.

She has seven husbands, Sansa sighed. What in the name of the gods she would do with all of them? Who were they, anyway? She had no idea. Closing her eyes again, she tried to picture who had the gods chosen for her. The men must be important somehow. They had to garner the interest and favor of the gods, right? They had to be suited for the gods’ individual needs and expectations, Sansa supposed.

A movement from Jon interrupted her thoughts and Sansa beamed and turned to look at her husband, her greatest love. Then she frowned slightly when she noticed that the man was too tall to be Jon.

For a moment, she wondered why she wasn’t alarmed to realize that there was a strange man in her bedchamber. When the fear just wouldn’t come, Sansa realized that she felt safe and protected despite not knowing the identity of her guest.

It must be one of her other husbands, then. The idea itself was strange.

She peered at him in the darkness but couldn’t really see much except his stretched out legs. It was night already – that meant she had slept the whole day away. Debating whether or not to wake him, she tried to find any indicator who it could be. A lot of men were taller than Jon and wore high boots.

As if he could feel her eyes on him, the man stirred and sat upright.

“My queen?” he asked and Sansa shivered at the gruffness of his voice – Jon’s was so soft and gentle, it was a startling contrast.

“Who are you?”

He sprang up to his impressive height and bowed curtly, clearing his throat. “Forgive me, Your Grace, I’m Stannis Baratheon.”

“And are we married, my lord?” she asked curiously and then wanted to smack herself. Of course not! Lord Stannis was already married to Lady Selyse. But what was he doing here? Her mind immediately flashed to her conversation with Lord Baelish – was it possible that it had been only yesterday? – and she suppressed her snort at the absurdity of it. She doubted that he had gone and thrown his wife from the tower.

“It would seem so,” he said uncomfortably and she watched him as he moved to light more candles. As more and more light penetrated the darkness of her chamber, she could see more and more of her new husband.

Gods, he was tall and broad in the shoulders. His figure spoke of strength and regular training with a sword – or perhaps even a hammer or an ax, who knew? There was dark stubble on his cheeks and strong jaw and his hair was peppered with grey lightly. It was obvious that Lord Stannis was older than Sansa but she knew that, of course. She also knew that he was about half a decade younger than her father at least, so still in the prime of his life.

“No need to pretend you like what you see, my queen.” He gave her a wry smile as he stood at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling? Are you thirsty? Or hungry?”

She noticed how his hands fisted momentarily before he clasped them behind his back, his dark eyes avoiding hers. She was momentarily stunned by what Lord Stannis had said and when she didn’t answer immediately, she watched in fascination as he ground his teeth.

“I’m alright,” she said hastily and then patted the edge of the bed. “Come sit with me, my lord. I think we need to talk.”

He gave her an incredulous look as he approached. He didn’t sit down and instead went to and brought the chair closer to the bed. As he was sinking down on it, Sansa finally managed to catch his eyes.

They were blue, very dark blue – and haunted.

“What happened after I lost consciousness?”

Lord Stannis gave her his recollection of the events and as Sansa listened, she observed him with keen interest. This was one of the men she was bound to, one of the possible fathers of her children. No, scratch that – he was one of the fathers of her future children. That’s what she had asked of the gods, hadn’t she? A father for her children. Well, she had gotten seven of them. She had destroyed Lord Stannis’s previous marriage in her selfish wish for guidance. Five other men who she didn’t even know had been married to her. She had robbed them of the opportunity to choose their wives and start a family…

Oh, gods, what if she had destroyed more than one marriage?

“What about your wife, my lord?” she asked, voice shaking. It hadn’t occurred to her what her actions could bring but Lord Stannis sitting here, looking all dejected… Had she destroyed his life with her own selfishness? Had she done the same to him and five other men what the gods had done to her in the first place?

Sansa believed that if Lord Stannis wouldn’t say something right now, she would throw up.

“She quite happily announced her wish to become a Silent Sister,” came the bitter answer.

“Happily?” The tone of his voice was enough to stop Sansa’s panic attack. Wringing the covers in her hands, she peered up into his face. Lord Stannis resolutely refused to meet her eyes.

He started to grind his teeth loudly and she watched as he clenched his jaw to stop himself from doing it. Then he nodded jerkily. “Yes. Selyse was grateful to Your Grace for the relief of ending her marriage to me.”

What an awful thing to even think let alone say to the face of her husband. Sansa gaped at him for a moment. “You can’t be serious, my lord! Lady Selyse was surely joking!”

“She’s never had a sense of humor.”

They looked at each other – or more precisely, Sansa looked at him while Lord Stannis was staring somewhere above Sansa’s shoulder.

“Would you like me to fetch Ser Jon? He would be delighted to know you are awake.”

She wanted to see Jon and speak to him about all of this desperately but she shook her head. Well aware of what she had done to this man, Sansa decided that Lord Stannis took precedence to her own comfort right now. He had guarded her sleep the whole day, after all, and they were married.

She refused to be the same kind of wife Lord Stannis had been obviously accustomed to. Their marriage didn’t differ from any other arranged marriage in Westeros but it didn’t mean that they had to treat each other as many other couples seemed to. That’s not what she wanted out of her unions with any of her husbands. She had no doubt that their bonds would serve a higher purpose and she would do her best to make them work. Why would the gods select them otherwise?

“May I see your mark?”

His head snapped to look at her, his eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

“The mark,” Sansa said with a slight smile. “I’m sure you’ve seen mine. It’s only fair that I see yours, don’t you think, my lord?”

He shook his head and swallowed. To Sansa's surprise, a slight blush spread over his cheeks. “It won’t be possible, my queen. The mark… It’s… It would be improper to show you.”

Sansa blinked as she tried to imagine where exactly his mark was located and why he was so reluctant to show it to her. “It’s not like I won’t see you without clothes.”

“Your Grace!” Lord Stannis spluttered and his blush deepened. “Do not jest on such matters!”

“I’m not! We are married, my lord, and not only in name…” Bewildered, Sansa sat up straighter at the realization. That’s what Lord Stannis thought this was. A bond in name only, an unconsummated marriage. It would explain the fact that he had refused to look at her while she was in her nightclothes and why he tried to keep his distance. While Sansa had been brought up like a proper lady, she wasn’t unaware of what was going on between men and women behind closed doors and wasn’t an ignorant child in these matters. Thank gods for that, it seemed.

Lord Stannis was currently looking at her as if she had lost her mind. Maybe she had, Sansa couldn’t be sure, to be honest. She should be relieved that he didn’t seem to want to exercise his rights, shouldn’t she? The truth was, no. Sansa had specifically asked the gods to choose the father of her children and she had well known how children were made. The gods gave her Jon back and she wouldn’t shy away from her end of the bargain.

“We are married,” she repeated slowly, softly. “I was selfish once already when I asked the gods to choose my husband for me. Now I have seven of you and… It would please me to know that we tried to make it a real marriage between us. I would not deny you family, my lord.”

“You do not want a real marriage with me,” he told her in a choked voice, shaking his head with his eyes never leaving Sansa’s. “I was a terrible husband to Selyse. I can’t… I can’t blame her for wishing to be rid of me. I… I broke our sacred vows, my lady…”

Raising a trembling hand to his face, he covered his eyes momentarily. “I do not deserve your favor or goodwill. I don’t understand why any god would choose me…”

He didn’t even know which god had picked him? Sansa reached the end of her patience – to be honest, seeing Lord Stannis in such a state pained her. She couldn’t explain it but it was fundamentally wrong and it tugged at her insides. She couldn’t stand what he was going through, what he thought about himself.

He was sitting close enough to the bed. She leaned over to him and clasped his hand in hers, forcing him to look at her.

“Let us look at your mark and figure it out, my lord. What do you say?” she asked gently. “Where is it?”

Lord Stannis stared at her for a long moment and then he tugged at his collar and started undoing the lacing of his doublet with his free hand without much success. His gaze was doubtful but his eyes did not stray from hers as if he was just waiting for the briefest sign to stop.

Sansa let go of the hand she had been holding, biting her lower lip. She had never seen a man who wasn’t a family disrobe. Jon didn’t count – she had seen him naked many times when they had been children and had stolen a glimpse or two when they had been older from time to time.

Standing up, Lord Stannis unbuckled his sword belt and let it fall to the ground with a clank. Then he got rid of the doublet and pulled his shirt over his head, turning his back to her as he did so and carefully folding his clothes on the chair.

By the time Lord Stannis stood half-naked in her bedchamber, Sansa could see how his shoulders rose and fell and she stared at the sinewy form in front of her. Taking one deep breath, he turned and with an uncomfortable expression, lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Here, my queen,” he said and pointed at the burn right over his heart.

Sansa leaned closer to inspect it and was not unaware of the fact how Lord Stannis stilled – he stopped even breathing, she guessed, so she made it a point to look only at the burn. The mark was ugly and red, a fresh burn that must pain him just as much as her marks pained Sansa.

“It’s a pair of scales,” she breathed. “The Father’s mark.”

Lord Stannis jerked away as she reached to touch it and glanced down in surprise. “So it is.”

When he raised his eyes to her, Sansa’s heart broke at the shattered expression in his gaze asking her what had possibly made the Father choose him of all people. Ignoring the way how Stannis seemed to shrink away from her touch, Sansa traced the skin around his mark with her fingertips.

“It’s so fitting, my lord,” she murmured soothingly. “I remember what my father once said about you. There’s no man more just and honorable than Lord Stannis. I was affronted, of course, because I believed that the most honorable and just man in the world was my father. But I think he was right, you know, and that’s why the Father chose you.”

Giving him a small smile, she placed her right palm over the mark. “You don’t fool me, Stannis Baratheon. You know right from wrong and you are just and honorable. This is an opportunity to prove it to the whole of Westeros, to yourself, and if you ever stray, I’ll be there to remind you of who you are.”

“And who am I, Your Grace?” he asked, hoarse and pleading.

“You are my husband.”

A gentle golden light shimmered under her palm and Sansa gasped and lifted her hand. The burn on Stannis’s chest was gone, healed, and only a golden pair of scales rested over his heart. She didn’t doubt that the corresponding burn on her forearm was also gone. It brought a large winning grin on her face and she winked at him.

“See? The Father agrees with me.”

Lord Stannis looked like had been just hit over the head with Lord Robert’s war hammer. He closed his eyes, blinked and then shook his head to clear it. “This is just too much, Your Grace.”

“We do not need to figure it all out right now, you know,” Sansa said and trailed the tips of her fingers across his jaw with another gentle smile. “But we will, my lord.”

“I’ll adhere to your superior knowledge, then.” Lord Stannis agreed solemnly but there was something lighter in his eyes and his expression wasn’t so severe anymore. Sansa grinned and then pecked his lips briefly, experimentally.

He wasn’t Jon, of course, and the kiss didn’t melt her heart as Jon’s did. It wasn’t unpleasant, though. There was nice warmth inside of her and it hummed in agreement as their lips touched. Neither of them was ready to think – let alone talk – about more that night but Sansa didn’t doubt that she could have something good and strong with Lord Stannis – in time. That was more than she had hoped for from her future husband just yesterday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here’s the Father’s pick. Ay or nay for my reasoning? The quote about him at the beginning is from Varys if you’re wondering about it *grins* Also, what do you think about Selyse and her passive-aggressive victim performance?  
> I have to say that Stannis was considered by three gods in total – the Smith and the Warrior wanted him, too, but then again… the Warrior is pretty straightforward and Stannis is too complicated for him, so the Warrior went and chose a guy more to his liking. The Smith was also kind enough to choose someone else but it was very close…  
> Next time: the Smith’s pick.


	3. The Smith's Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did the Smith pick…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m happy you agreed with the Father’s choice, thank you. Now be prepared to be shocked – OOC ahead *grins*

PART ONE, CHAPTER THREE

_**The Smith’s Choice** _

_“There is a tool for every task, and a task for every tool.”_

Lord Stannis looked startled by the kiss when Sansa leaned back. Observing his expression, she blushed and asked, “Was it too forward of me, my lord? Or improper?”

“Unexpected? Yes. Forward? Possibly,” he grumbled and then blinked. “Improper? As you seem to like to remind me, we are married.”

It wasn’t improper for them to be alone in her bedchamber either. While the situation was entirely new to Sansa, she did not feel as apprehensive as she would have guessed. She suspected that the reason was sitting right in front of her, half-naked. Lord Stannis was uncomfortable enough for the both of them and she made a mental note to get to know her serious husband better, maybe coax a smile or two out of him eventually. She would wish him to be as relaxed in her presence as Jon was, as her family was.

Her husband awkwardly cleared his throat and turn to put his shirt on, asking, “Do you wish me to leave you to your rest?”

Sansa thought about her answer carefully. The truth was, she wasn’t tired in the slightest and she had no idea how to occupy her time. A large part of her wanted to seek out Jon now that she had cleared up the air with Stannis somewhat. However, it was the middle of the night and her young husband was most probably asleep. Jon had not slept well in the last months and she didn’t want to disturb his well-deserved rest.

They had all the time in the world, now, Sansa thought giddily. No one would be able to take that from them, to separate them again. Chancing a glance at Lord Stannis, she bit her lip. He had put his doublet on, too, but left the lacing undone. Holding his sword and belt in one hand, he frowned at the buckle.

A startling thought surprised her then. She did not wish to see Lord Stannis go. Judging by the fact that he did not put on the belt and was still thoughtfully looking down at it, he did not wish to leave.

Was this the soulbond tightening their hold over them?

“I would wish for you to stay the night,” she said, voice determined. She really did. Then she blushed crimson when she realized how it could be interpreted. While Sansa honestly wanted a real marriage with Lord Stannis they weren’t anywhere near the point when they would be comfortable to be together intimately – and she wanted Jon to be her first time.

Stannis breathed in sharply and turned his questioning eyes toward her.

“I… enjoy your company, my lord, and it would be prudent to get to know one another… Don’t you think?” Sansa babbled and inwardly winced at how high her voice sounded. Her husband nodded curtly, his expression giving nothing away. Sansa could swear, though, that she caught a glimpse of surprise and pleasure in his eyes.

A knock sounded on the door, startling them both. Stannis whirled toward it, his hand immediately going to the hilt of his sword. Sansa jumped up in the bed and pulled the covers to her neck.

“Your Grace?” The door opened and a bald head poked inside. Eyes quickly widening, the owner of said head added, “My lord!”

“Lord Varys!” Sansa all but squeaked out in mortification. Stannis was standing by her bed, his tunic untucked, the lacing of his doublet undone and with his belt in his hands while Sansa was sitting in her nightclothes in the bed… The picture they made spoke volumes. It did not matter how misleading the scene was, though. She had no reason to be ashamed or embarrassed, she reminded herself in exasperation. Lord Stannis was her husband!

“What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” barked Stannis, unamused. “Did I not tell all of you not to disturb the queen? Or is the realm under attack?”

Varys moved inside the bedchamber and closed the door behind him carefully, his eyes roving around the room so he didn’t have to look at either of them. It was obvious that the Master of Whispers had not expected to find the queen in the presence of one of her husbands. 

Lord Varys had been on the Council for a long time and from what she knew of the man, he was used to dealing with things discreetly on his own. Sansa had suspected that she would have serious problems with wrestling some control over the state secrets from his grasp but maybe it wouldn’t be the case. He had seemed open to the idea of her rule more than most.

“The realm is safe, according to my birds,” he finally replied and decided to look straight at the Prince Consort briefly. “However, there is a matter I thought required the queen’s… personal attention.”

His eyes then settled on Sansa. A strange light of amusement flickered in his gaze for a moment and she could swear that the man was about to crack up. It alarmed her more than she was ready to admit and she started to suspect what he was doing here.

“Get to the point, damn you!” Stannis forced out through clenched teeth and Sansa momentarily wondered at the quick change he had gone through – gone was her almost bashful husband who had let her touch his mark, and in his stead was an irritated, gruff lord used to bark orders right and left.

“There seemed to be an altercation.”

Sansa blinked. Lord Varys was enjoying this, wasn’t he?

“What sort of an altercation?” she asked slowly, reaching out to touch Stannis’s hand when she noticed that he was taking a deep breath. Her husband was so startled by the gesture that he simply shut his mouth and remained silent, only glancing back at her.

“Rather violent, if I may say so, between two other of your royal consorts, I’m afraid. I believe that large quantities of wine and some sharp words had preceded the attack itself.”

“Attack? I thought we were talking about an altercation.” Sansa found herself getting more alarmed by the minute. Who had been involved? She regretted now not asking Stannis about the identity of the other. She really should have done so!

“I believe it started as only exchange of a few pointed words, which developed in one man attacking the other… and that resulted in the victim to retaliate… and here we are. Their companions got involved, of course, then the personal guards and then the poor servants got in the way and… before you knew it, we had a regular brawl on our hands right in the corridors of the keep…”

She saw the way Varys’s lips twitched. Oh, yeah, he was enjoying this immensely, and it allowed her to breathe more freely. If the Master of Whispers found it amusing, nothing serious had happened to either of her husbands.

The queen closed her eyes briefly and heaved a deep sigh. Sansa wasn’t sure why but it did not surprise her too much. Not that she had ever expected her consorts to behave like little children but she had grown up with five boys who had not been able to stop provoking each other. It was in men’s nature, she supposed. 

“Is any of them dead?” asked Stannis shortly and – to her surprise and pleasure – gave her hand a short squeeze. When Sansa opened her eyes, Lord Stannis was resolutely staring down at Varys, his face harsh and eyes furious. He was angry at the way their night had been interrupted and Sansa got a wonderful idea.

“The royal guards managed to separate the groups before anything serious could happen. I thought Your Grace should at least know about it, maybe soothe some ruffled feathers… Or whatever Your Grace decides to do with the esteemed Princes Consorts.”

Gods, she wanted to smack Lord Varys’s face. Deciding that she really needed to address this as soon as possible, she took a deep breath to brace herself.

“I want to speak with the attacked one,” she said briskly. It did not escape her attention that Lord Varys hadn’t named them yet and she didn’t know if she was appreciating it or not. He probably had done it on purpose as not to spoil the ‘surprise.’ She supposed that a person in his situation had to find amusement where he could.

Then she swallowed and looked up at Lord Stannis. “My lord?”

“Yes, my queen?” he asked, his tone when addressing her entirely different from the tone he had used to speak with Varys. Sansa was secretly pleased with that. Still holding his hand in hers, she squeezed his fingers.

“May I ask for your assistance, my lord?”

“Of course.” He didn’t smile but his eyes softened slightly. She took it as another good sign.

“Would you go and see the other one, please? Explain how we did not enjoy the commotion tonight.” Sansa watched as understanding dawned in his eyes. She was not using the royal we in this case and she wanted her husband to act his part. If the other consorts would anger them both, he had full right to deal with them as he saw fit. Well, maybe a little bit of regulation would be good, though. “I do not wish for any violence to happen in these halls. If he won’t understand that, bring him to me and I’ll express my displeasure personally.”

“I will do my best to spare you the necessity to yell at him,” Stannis snorted. He looked like he wanted to say or maybe do something more but then he nodded and headed to the door. “Let us be done with this, then. Good night, Wife.”

“Thank you, Husband.” Sansa watched him go with a small smile. Was it too much to wish for a parting kiss? She sighed and shook her head. Baby steps, that’s what her Baratheon husband needed from her but she did not doubt that he would have fun straightening out the other poor consort for disrupting their night.

“I shall send you your other husband, then.” Lord Varys bowed to her and followed Stannis out of the door. “I wish you a pleasant rest of the night, Your Grace.”

She would bet that Varys would listen at the door – or one of his little birds would, at least.

“Thank you, my lord.”

As soon as the door closed behind the Master of Whispers, Sansa jumped up from her bed, throwing the covers away, and rushed to get at least partly presentable. She did not attempt to change into one of her complicated dresses without the help of her handmaidens. She instead twisted her hair into a loose braid and put on her dressing gown…

Just in time to hear the door to her parlor bang open.

The sound made her jump and her eyebrows rose in shock. Who would come barging into the queen's chambers like this? Sansa shook herself from her shocked stupor and approached the door, half-expecting that her husband – whoever it was – would throw it open before she could. That didn’t happen and she slipped into the next room without being noticed.

She hadn’t given much thought to whom she would find on the other side of that door. She did not expect, however, the sight that greeted her.

Like a caged lion, Lord Lannister paced back and forth in front of her fireplace. A poor young maester helplessly stood by, holding bandages and what she recognized as a tincture used for cleaning wounds.

Sansa couldn’t believe her eyes. It was surreal. Just as she was trying to convince herself that this was a dream, the maester raised the cloth and attempted to take a step closer to his patient.

“That’s enough!” roared Lord Lannister, swatted the man’s hand away and pointed toward the door. “Out! Now!”

The maester stuttered something, shrunk away from Sansa’s husband and started to blindly move backward, tripping over his own feet.

Sansa couldn’t actually blame him. She was able to see only Lord Lannister’s profile but he wore a mask of utter fury, face contorted in rage, rolled up bandage stuffed into one of his nostrils. There was blood smeared over his face coming from a shallow cut above his eyebrow and dripping down on the front of his clothes. He looked terrifying.

She blinked and then pinched herself. It didn’t work. Lord Lannister was still there covered in blood and scaring the life out of the young maester.

Oh, gods, he was her husband!

The realization was like a punch to the stomach. The man with a lump of gold instead of heart had been chosen as one of her consorts? She had no idea what to make of it. While the Father’s choice of Lord Stannis was unexpected, she could see herself respecting and maybe even loving that man… But Lord Lannister? He was so much older than her, and what she had seen of him so far wasn’t winning him any favors.

“Leave your supplies on the table,” she ordered calmly even if she felt anything but calm. She needed to focus on the current problem on hand, though; her husband’s injuries and his towering rage.

Lord Lannister whirled to her and Sansa tried not to gasp at the full extent of the damage done to his face. She met his glare head-on instead. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Your Grace.” His response was immediate and he performed a shallow bow. His voice was perfectly polite and his expression smoothed out as if nothing was amiss. Those green cold eyes, however, glared daggers at her. “What is the meaning of this, if I may ask?”

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that question?” She took a brave step further into the room, her spine stiffening in answer to his obvious irritation. The maester put his whole bag on the table and ran out of the door, shutting them with a soft thud. Neither Sansa nor Lord Lannister spared the man one glance, too focused on staring at each other.

“I’m afraid I do not see why I have been ordered here to attend my queen like some lowborn commoner servant.”

“Oh?” Sansa felt her ire rise even more at his words. “You do not feel there is something we should discuss, my lord?”

“Not in the slightest,” he growled and it was at that moment that Sansa finally noticed the way Lord Lannister stood. His shoulders were hunched over, head slightly bowed as he glared down at her and watched her every move. One of his hands was pressed to his side and the other clenched into a tight fist; the knuckles were bruised and bleeding as well.

He was in pain and at the end of whatever self-restraint had been left to him. Lord Lannister truly did remind her of a beast backed into a corner which was about to either chew off its own paw to get free – or attack the person foolish enough to approach.

Sansa’s insides twisted almost painfully and there was an insistent pull at her soul. The bond, she realized with agitation. They were bonded whether they liked it or not and seeing him injured had impacted it. She fought to stay aloof and not to show her discomfort.

She needed to tread with extreme caution. Not only that she knew next to nothing about her husband and what sort of person he was behind a closed door, but she also had no idea how he viewed their marriage. Just yesterday, Lord Lannister had tried to have her married off to one of his relatives and she had riled him up on purpose.

“Not even about the state of your face?” she asked lightly and gestured toward one of the chairs. “If the member of my Small Council is attacked in the corridors of my keep, I believe I have the right to know.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, Your Grace. It would have been taken care of.” He glanced around the room momentarily before he went and sat down.

“One of my consorts attacked you,” she said with a shrug and started to light up more candles. She needed to see much better if she was going to attempt cleaning up the cut on his forehead. She knew she simply had to do something. “I can’t have you kill him, my lord, not with the bonding in place.”

It was possibly the worst thing to say because Lord Lannister grimaced and started to rise to his feet. “I shall not discuss that man with you – and I refuse to grace the unfortunate situation you have put me in with a single thought.”

“Excuse me?” Sansa stilled, turning to stare at him incredulously. The unfortunate situation she had put him in? That’s what he thought about their marriage and bonding? She herself wasn’t over the moon by the fact but… That was utterly disrespectful! The pull inside of her lessened as her anger rose once more – and then the bond tugged at her with much more force anew.

Lord Lannister met her eyes without remorse, his jaw set. He motioned with his hand to the air between them. Had he felt it, too? Why was he so difficult if that was the case?

“I would have expected you to view our new connection in a more positive light,” Sansa said, bringing one candle with her and putting it on the table. Then she grabbed the gauze, soaked in the tincture and raised it to his inspection. “Your face, my lord.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he growled and leaned out of her reach.

“I can’t have a conversation with you while you are staining my furniture with your blood.”

Before he could retort, Sansa struck boldly. She dabbed at the cut quickly, shocking Lord Lannister into sitting back down and forcing a hiss out of him. He jerked away almost immediately.

“Hold still, for gods’ sake.”

If she thought that he had been glaring at her before, the gaze Lord Lannister leveled at her now probably could kill lesser men. Sansa wasn’t some southern little lordling, though. She was one of the Wolves of the North. Moving a step closer, she concentrated on wiping away most of the blood.

Lord Lannister watched her the whole time, the expression in his gaze never softening, the tightness around his lips never relaxing. Sansa thanked whatever god or goddess was watching over her tonight that her hands did not shake.

Being this close to him was unnerving. His presence was intimidating and she had dared to order him around – he certainly wasn’t used to that. Sansa was astonished that he had allowed it and again wondered if maybe, just maybe, their fighting was pulling at his soul so uncomfortably, too.

As she worked, she couldn’t help but catalog what she saw. Lord Lannister’s eyes were a pleasant shade of green with tiny specks of lighter color that reminded her of gold in the sunlight. His beard was surprisingly soft – much softer than Jon’s or the short stubble that covered Stannis’s cheeks. His hair was still more golden than grey. The area around his left cheekbone was slightly swollen and red, his lower lip was split. His right cheek was scratched. Despite all of that – and those fine lines around his eyes, on his forehead and between his eyebrows – she could not doubt one simple fact.

Her husband had been a good-looking man in his youth. He wasn’t a young man anymore, that much was obvious, but the passage of years had not robbed him of his handsomeness. She swallowed and wondered what kissing him would be like. What a strange thought to have about Lord Lannister.

“This has to get out.” She tugged the bandage in stuffed in his nose out. No fresh blood poured out of it and he allowed her to examine the damage. “It’s not broken.”

With a not, he let her then wipe off the last of the blood from around his upper lip.

Then she pulled one of the chairs next to him and started to work on his right hand. He wore a massive signet ring on the middle finger and the head of the golden lion was bloodied as well. Sansa suspected that it wasn’t his blood. She didn’t dare to look up into Lord Lannister’s face when she felt some of the tension leave his body. She just knew that her own irritation had somehow evaporated almost as soon as she had started her work. The discomfort she had felt was also gone.

His hands were much larger than hers and rough like the hands of men who trained with the sword often tended to be. Lord Lannister also did not hesitate to use his fists when swords were not available. Her other consort’s face must also be a sight. Sansa bit her lip, suppressing her curiosity about the whole fight.

The silence felt like a truce after all that previous growling and snarling.

When all the cuts and scratches were cleaned up, Sansa went through the maester’s bag and fished out a healing ointment. Dipping her fingers in the oily substance, she was surprised as Lord Lannister stilled her hand.

“You have done enough, Your Grace. The bleeding has stopped and I’d rather have this conversation over as soon as possible.”

And just like that, the little bubble of serenity popped.

“I am a woman. I’m perfectly capable of rubbing the ointment over your cuts and listening to why, exactly, you have brawled with another of my husbands like you were common thugs in a tavern and not prince consorts of this realm in their queen’s home.”

With those words, she twisted her hand out of his grasp and moved to smear the ointment over his eyebrow. Lord Lannister breathed deeply through his nose and allowed it, informing her tersely, “My word was final. I will not discuss that… man…”

“We have another pressing matter to discuss, then,” Sansa agreed readily, nodding. She hesitated if she should speak about Stannis but then decided that if this thing had any chance of working, she needed to be honest and open to all of her consorts. “I have already met with Lord Stannis and it left me feeling quite positive about this whole situation, my lord…”

“I somehow don’t doubt that Lord Stannis realizes how infinitely better you have made his life by freeing him of that harpy,” he interrupted her and then stood up abruptly. Sidestepping her, Lord Lannister smoothed out his doublet and looked down his nose at her. “I don’t doubt that the rest of the sorry lot will fall to their knees and worship the ground you walk on, Your Grace. However, I am not one of them. You have no idea what your actions had caused.”

Sansa shook her head as she watched him with disbelief.

“And what have I done?”

“You have taken my wife away from me forever, you stupid little girl.” This time, Lord Lannister did not roar his words, he said them softly with so much unadulterated loathing that Sansa’s knees gave up.

What? Lady Lannister had been dead for years, had died giving birth to Lord Tyrion… Sansa’s mind went blank and her heart shuddered and skipped a beat. A terrible realization started to bloom inside of her. Lord Lannister had never remarried, never had spoken those sacred marriage vows to another, waiting to meet his wife when the Stranger beckoned?

“No, my dear.” He smiled and there was nothing positive in that smile. “It wasn’t a mere marriage vow you broke with your foolishness. I was bonded to Joanna for more than three decades until this very morning until you destroyed my link to my wife. That is what you have done to me.”

She could only stare up at him and watch as he clenched his jaw. For several moments, he returned her look, his eyes roving over Sansa’s face. They were colder than ice and dead. Lord Lannister’s eyes were dead and she wanted to weep at the realization of what she had caused.

Leaning over her, he whispered, “This conversation is over, Your Grace, and we shall never speak of the unfortunate connection between us ever again.”

Sansa nodded, glancing away from him, letting the silent tears fell.

“Good night, then. I’m looking forward to seeing you at the next council meeting.” He bowed mockingly and started for the door. Before he slipped through it, Lord Lannister briefly turned and said over his shoulder. “And be reassured that I shall not attempt to settle my debts with your unfortunate husband yet. The pain of severing a soulbound would crush you and we do need an heir before you can go mad.”

With those final parting words, Lord Lannister slipped through the door and closed them behind him softly.

Sansa slid down to the ground and wept, a shaking hand covering her eyes and silent sobs wracking her body. Gods, what she had done? Why had they let her do it? Why would any of the gods pick Lord Lannister under those circumstances? It was terrible, it was cruel and she did not understand what purpose it could serve. Why him? Why? Anyone would have been better than Lord Tywin Lannister.

***

The queen’s anguish assaulted him before he made three steps down the corridor. Tywin breathed out sharply and leaned against the wall, grimacing in pain. Her emotions were so raw, so uncontrolled. The bond pulled at him, tearing at his insides agonizingly as it urged him to return to her and soothe the pain.

It had been years since he had had to deal with emotions that were not his own. Tywin hadn’t been prepared for it and fought constantly to control the bond, almost envying the others their weak, just freshly forged links to the queen.

If he had to compare it to something, he would say that a soulbond was like an aqueduct. It had taken a lot of hard work to build it but when the water had flown through it effortlessly, it had been more than worth all that effort. With Joanna’s death, the water source had gone dry. The stonework had still remained in place, though, and with this… thing… that had been forced on him, the floodgates had been opened again.

Tywin had no idea how to stop it.

A stupid little girl. He knew very well what she had wanted – she had wanted Ser Jon Targaryen back and that’s what she had gotten. But hadn’t she known that the gods never give anything just like that? There’s always a catch, their favors were never free. He knew more about that than he would like.

Forcing his tired body to move, Tywin marched forward. Each step was putting more distance between him and the queen and when he had gone far enough, the pull of the soulbond stopped. A sigh of relief escaped him. He knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to keep the distance for long but for now, he was content.

The ache he felt was finally only his own – as it should be. His ribs were tender. His face would sport several interestingly colored bruises come morning. The cuts and scratches had stopped bleeding, however, and he counted that as a good sign.

Tywin couldn’t remember the last time when someone had the gall to either talk back to him or downright attack him physically…

The queen’s appearance seemed to put a stop to that. The little lady enjoyed riling him up – she had even before the bonding – and had no problems to try and order him around. It was also the queen’s actions that had directly led to Tywin being attacked.

If it weren’t for her, it wouldn’t have happened. If it weren’t for her, that man would have been already dead.

Stopping at the crossroads, Tywin looked to his right.

The corridor would lead him to his chambers. He had no doubt that the rooms were abuzz with activity and people on the brink of a nervous breakdown. His servants would undoubtedly descend upon him as soon as he stepped through the door.

He detested the very idea of putting up with that. He was tired, unbelievably so. The queen had done a fine job in treating his cuts and scratches as it was. She was probably the only person in this world whose touch he was willing to suffer – and only because of the bond was forcing him to accept it.

He had no illusions about the state of things between the queen and himself. Without the bond, they would have been bitter enemies. With the bond, they barely managed to be civil to each other and Tywin simply refused to let a mystical binding control his actions.

The corridor to his left would lead him out of the main building and if he would follow it, to the small sept located in the gardens. Closing his eyes, Tywin heaved a deep breath and turned left.

The moon was bright and the warm night air smelled of summer blossoms. Tywin’s steps were slow and he wasn’t certain why he felt the need to visit the sept but he continued forward nonetheless. After several minutes of walking among greenery, he finally reached his destination and hesitated at the entrance before stepping inside.

There were three candles lit – for the Father, for the Maiden. He glanced curiously at the bright flame flickering at the Stranger’s altar and wondered for a second who had been desperate enough to light it.

Reaching for a new one, he quickly lit the candle and placed it at the Smith’s altar.

His knees were slow to bend – the Great Lion was unused to bending the knee even to the gods – yet he knelt on the cold hard ground and leaned his hand against the altar, tracing the edge of the stone with his fingertips.

The air grew heavy. The Smith’s eyes stared at him from the statue. A strange humming sound filled his ears and Tywin knew the gods were listening. He had felt their presence only a handful of times. Twice with the queen – when Sansa of House Stark had been crowned and when she had been bound to her consorts.

The first time he had found himself facing the gods, he had asked – not beg, for Lannisters did not act beg – them for a soulbond to his beautiful cousin. It had been the only way how he had been able to break the arranged betrothal to that Reyne harpy and marry Joanna instead. He had been a stupid young man back then, too concerned with what everyone had thought of him.

Kneeling here and remembering how he had felt then, Tywin was ready to concede that he understood his young queen’s motivation and naivety. Once upon a time, he had been the same. He had been warned that in exchange for the soulbond to Joanna, the gods would take her away from him – and they had… First in body and now…

Now, he had lost her for eternity. The hope of seeing her again had been Tywin’s only consolation since the moment Joanna had died.

That was something Tywin would not forgive himself. He was not angry at the queen, not truly. The anger at himself had been festering in his heart since his beloved wife’s death for he had always known that it had been his wish what had ultimately killed Joanna.

Sansa Stark with her bright eyes and kind nature could never replace her. He didn’t understand why the Smith would choose him to be a part of this madness. What purpose did it serve but to remind Tywin that not even the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms was not above the gods? But he didn’t need to be reminded of that. Tywin had always been while not diligent, then at least a passable worshipper.

“There was no need to bind the queen to me,” he said and the mark over his heart flared up in pain. It seemed that the Smith did not share his opinion and did not appreciate Tywin questioning the god’s decision. The breath left his body and he was forced to bow his head down.

“I’ve done your bidding for the last thirty years!” Roaring, he raised his head again, glaring at the statue. In the Smith’s eyes, a red fire form one of the divine forges flickered. “I kept this realm together and I planned to do so no matter who sat the Iron Throne!”

Another shock of pain seized him and Tywin dropped down, breathing through clenched teeth. The mark was burning, punishing him for his defiance.

“What more do you want from me?” he asked. There was no answer, just one more flare of pain and then silence, utter and deafening silence. His harsh breaths were the only sound that resonated inside the sept for several long moments and when Tywin rose to his feet, his nose started bleeding again.

“Damn it!” he hissed, hitting the wall with his fist and undoing Sansa’s hard work. For the briefest of moments, he contemplated that should the queen see his fit of temper, she certainly wouldn’t be amused.

It made him chuckle and then he shook his head. Tywin couldn’t say that he was impressed with his own behavior in the last 24 hours either. He was too unnerved, too tired to function properly and it wouldn’t do. He had a realm to run and a new wife to ignore, after all.

If there was one thing that Queen Sansa had proven to him, it was the fact that Tywin needed to keep his wits about him whenever he dealt with her. Now that she had six other men to annoy the hell out of him in their new roles of prince consorts, he needed to brace himself for more madness laced with an unhealthy dose of stupidity.

The realm was facing a period of great changes and Tywin needed as much support – moral and otherwise – as he could get. He would ask Kevan to stay in the capital for the foreseeable future. Maybe Genna would welcome the opportunity to extend her stay, too. She disliked her Frey relatives, after all.

Pinching his bleeding nose, Tywin made his way out of the sept. His mind was already whirling with what he needed to do to strengthen his position at the court. Unaware and uncaring that his candle was still lit, he never noticed that the Smith’s eyes were watching him with pity and sadness. But not even the god of craftsmen could fix something that didn’t want to be fixed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all thought that it’s Sandor at first, right? *winks* Alright, I had a field day with this one! Sansa and Stannis seem to be compatible enough, don’t they? I hope it’s not too rushed but the Father knew what he was doing…  
> Ay or nay for the Smith’s pick? Tywin was also briefly considered by the Father but our Lord Lannister isn’t afraid of underhanded behavior if it’s necessary and the Smith welcomes his readiness to do what needs to be done. The quote comes from Tywin himself, if you were wondering, and it seemed fitting. Also… In our country, we also say that people have ‘golden hands’ if they are good at crafting something or working with their hands. It doesn’t have the same connotations in English, I suppose, but Tywin was the Smith’s pick from the very beginning because of that saying *grins*  
> Hands up who expected Tywin to be difficult about his soulbond? *raises her hand* Yep, thought so… Hands up who expected him to get into a drunken brawl? *stares expectantly at you* Ok… Now, I do feel really bad for destroying his previous bond with Joanna. Maybe a comment with your thoughts about the chapter will help me feel better? *winks*  
> Next time: the Mother’s pick… with whom the Lord Lannister brawled like a common thug. Any guesses?


	4. The Mother’s Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did the Mother pick…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of you already guessed who it was… I suppose he was an obvious choice after all those anvils of hints I dropped, wasn’t he? *grins* Hope you have fun, even though things get a little more serious…

PART ONE, CHAPTER FOUR

_**The Mother’s Choice** _

_“Girl or boy, we fight our battles… but the Gods let us choose our weapons.”_

His first thoughts went to Ellaria and how improbable this was. Oberyn was certain that the gods were laughing their heads off somewhere right now. The mark over his heart was burning but it was hardly something that warranted his attention. It wouldn’t be the first or the last wound he had ever received – but its origins were surely unusual even for a worldly man like him.

His attention was focused on the queen and the other consorts who were moving toward her. He felt the pull, of course, but he liked to think that he would have gone and checked the state of the girl even without it. What sort of a man would just let their queen fall and not try to offer his aid?

His dark eyes then sought out the Lion. Just the sight of Tywin Lannister made his blood boil – and the aloof way he reacted to the situation was granting on Oberyn’s nerves.

Lannister towered over the others, unconcerned about the queen’s state as he glanced down at the girl, ordering, “Pick the queen up, Ser Jon. We should move this to a more private setting.”

One look at the queen and the severe burns on her arms made Oberyn wince in sympathy. She was barely old enough to be called a woman. Little girls were not supposed to have the responsibility for the whole realm thrust upon them. The Seven Kingdoms were rotted to the core and he sincerely pitied the child for that.

Well, she wasn’t a child anymore, was she? She was his wife. Gods, that sounded wrong and he glanced around, searching for Ellaria in the crowds.

His paramour was standing near the entrance, looking agitated. He wished he could calm her temper but as it was, his own was flaring in confusion and irritation.

Their eyes met and Oberyn gestured to her that they would speak later. Ellaria nodded and then watched the proceedings, observing the unconscious queen and the rest of the royal consorts. 

Somewhat relieved, Oberyn looked down at the young knight who carefully scooped the queen into his arms. It was Rhaegar’s bastard, he noted. It was the first time Oberyn had the opportunity to actually look at the boy and was surprised by what he saw.

There wasn’t a single trace of his father in the young man and Oberyn supposed that Ser Jon had taken after the mother, the young and headstrong she-wolf. Were all Stark women like that? That could prove to be interesting…

He wasn’t one to blame children for their parents’ misdeeds, so he moved out of the boy’s way with a small bow. The poor youth was distraught enough as it was.

Yes, the gods were surely amused by this… To think that he would share his wife with Rhaegar’s bastard… But Ser Jon wasn’t the only one, was he? Oberyn didn’t actually mind sharing in the bedroom… but being tied in any way to that murderer… No, Oberyn wasn’t sure how this wouldn’t end in violence before the day was out.

He suppressed the grimace. While Oberyn wasn’t exactly the most religious man to ever walk the earth, he held great respect for the Seven. He didn’t live his life following all of their rules but he tried not to anger them too much. Oberyn wasn’t one for deception and lies and he was always open about what and who he was and how he did things.

Marrying had never been a thing he had considered and the whole world had known that. Oberyn was perfectly happy with the state of things as they were… As they had been.

The queen had effectively destroyed that and while he wanted to be angry at the girl, he was sure that she had not anticipated it herself. Ah, the folly of youth. He had done his fair share of stupid things when he had been the queen’s age. Seven hells, Oberyn couldn’t say that he had stopped doing stupid things now as a grown man and father of numerous grown-up children.

It just wasn’t in his nature.

Oberyn sneered slightly as he watched the Lannister scum bark orders right and left. He ordered the servants to prepare the queen’s chambers, he ordered Pycelle, the old fool, to follow them, and then he was striding right after the Targaryen boy. A gaggle of royal consorts followed him and Oberyn detested the fact that he was one of them.

Why should Lannister be the one giving the orders to them all? What right did he have? Not that he wanted to be the one taking over – he actually did not want anything to do with this whole situation. But Lannister? Oberyn would rather die than to listen to that man. Or better yet, he would slip a drop of poison into Lannister’s cup and be done with it. The queen would probably thank him, too.

They all eventually made it into the queen’s chambers and watched as Pycelle examined her. It was uncomfortably tense several minutes spent mostly in silence until the Grand Maester finally told them that the queen was simply tired and would recover fully. He then proceeded to treat the burns.

As if waiting for that, the Targaryen boy moved to stand protectively at the foot of the bed.

“We should let the queen rest, then,” he said and Oberyn recognized it for what it was. While he wasn’t there yet, Ser Jon was on his way to becoming a fine man worthy of respect. He had the balls to back it up and a pretty face to smooth things over. “I will let you know when she is ready to discuss what has happened.”

“Careful, boy,” Lannister glared at Ser Jon. “You do not have the authority you are trying to exercise here…”

“And you do?” interrupted him Oberyn and took a step closer to Lannister, a feral smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “The last time I checked, the queen did not pick a favorite among her consorts.”

“In case you haven’t heard, what the queen needs is rest,” stressed out yet another commanding voice and Oberyn only glanced in the direction of its owner before refocusing attention on Lannister.

“If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it,” the Lion sneered and actually leaned closer to Oberyn. “As it is…”

“My lords! Let’s just leave the queen to her rest, shall we? This is not the right place to have this conversation.” Another consort suggested but Oberyn did not even glance in his direction this time.

Lannister was returning his stare unblinkingly and Oberyn could swear that he would draw at any moment. That would be perfect, he was just waiting for the opportunity to run his blade through the Lion. Just one little move, only one indication that Lannister was going for his weapon would be enough…

“Oh, my lords, it really is… that is to say… the queen…” Maester Pycelle stopped treating the burns and helplessly looked around. “I can’t say that this… it certainly is not… Think of her health…”

“Enough!”

Before Oberyn could react – and that’s saying something given his usually quick reflexes – someone pushed in between him and the Lion and spread out his arms, keeping them at distance. “The queen needs her rest and we need to calm down. All of us.”

Oberyn’s first instinct was to push against the man in front of him and go for the dagger and drive it into the nearest gap in the man’s armor. One look at the handsome face looking back at him sternly, he suppressed the urge. He strongly resembled his sister, Oberyn was willing to acknowledge, and not for the first time he wondered how wonderful it would be to bed the beautiful siblings. Ellaria liked to daydream about it from time to time.

They were also currently crowding the queen’s bedroom and there was not enough space to fight. That was one thing. The other was that the Warrior’s chosen – for who else could he be? – was right. The queen needed to rest and Pycelle should just focus on those awful burns.

Nodding once, he stepped back, eyes shifting to look over the knight’s shoulder at the Lion. “We can continue this some other time.”

“We shall, Prince Oberyn,” agreed Lannister with a barely noticeable sneer. “But I doubt you are capable of a normal conversation if it doesn’t involve maiming my soldiers or at least threatening to do harm to anything connected to my house.”

“Perhaps there won’t be a conversation, then.” Oberyn grinned savagely. So, the Lion had already heard about that little incident. Well, the soldier in question had probably survived… unable to use his sword hand but at least he was still alive. Unlike Elia.

“Shall I escort you to your chambers, Prince Oberyn?” asked the knight calmly. Oberyn was almost insulted by the fact that he didn’t even turn to look at Lannister… but then again, it showed how smart the man was, keeping the Red Viper in his sights. Oberyn was a hundred times more dangerous than a toothless old lion who sent others to do all his dirty work.

“I can find my own way there,” he said and took another step back and then went for the door. His heart was pounding, his body was tense in anticipation of a fight that would never come… or at least not now.

Shaking his head, he rolled his shoulders and went to find Ellaria. There was a lot to discuss.

***

Oberyn’s search for his paramour proved to be fruitless. She wasn’t in their chambers when he arrived and no one seemed to know where exactly she had gone. For one insane moment, he thought that she had gone to kill the queen but his Ellaria wasn’t that reckless. If she would want the queen dead, she would find a more sophisticated way to do so. Oberyn also did not think that Ellaria would want the girl dead anyway. Or at least he hoped so. If the queen died now, the Seven Kingdoms would remain under the rule of the Small Council – and those fools were all in Lannister’s pocket.

Oberyn spent some time worrying about what Ellaria might think about the soulbond. Those were so rare that people didn’t know what to expect of them. He had come across only a few references in all his travels across the world, though the Citadel had some records on the topic. He had just never thought he would need to know anything about soul-bonding, having already found the love of his life in his paramour.

The morning had turned into an early afternoon when Ellaria finally stepped inside their chambers.

“My love!” Oberyn called and went to her. “There you are!”

“Nervous, my dear?” Ellaria smirked at him as she winked and returned his kiss. Every time their lips touched, the fire of passion he felt for his paramour would ignite once more and he didn’t think it would ever change. “The queen is nothing to me, you do know that, do you not?”

“Of course, I do.” She touched his face gently and smiled. “But Oberyn! Oh, she’s so beautiful! I’m delighted to have her in our family.”

“You are?” he asked with a frown. He had not expected that. Ellaria was carefree and fickle and did not mind sharing him with other lovers… But he had expected her not to be happy about his soulbond to another woman. He had sworn that no one else would ever come before Ellaria, and the nature of the bond itself forced him to give the queen a priority.

“You’re not?” Now it was his paramour’s turn to frown and she stepped from his embrace. “Why?”

“We know nothing about the girl,” he said. “And she is bound to six other men… You do know who one of them is, don’t you?”

“Well, you are lucky to have me, then,” Ellaria relaxed and took his hand, leading him toward the bed. “It’s surprising how many things the servants know and are willing to share with one another. Being a bastard here is like being a servant. You’re nothing if you don’t have the proper last name.”

“So, what have you found about our delightful queen?” asked Oberyn with a smile and let himself be pushed down on the bed.

“She is kind, maybe too kind, and gentle and loyal to those she loves,” said Ellaria and giving him a knowing smile, she traced her fingers along the hem of his tunic. “They call her the Wolf Queen here but her own people love her to death, she was a precious and sweet child. They worry for her; her parents, her siblings, her servants… Every single one of them.”

“She’s got some guts,” said Oberyn and heaved a deep sight as Ellaria started to disrobe, putting on quite a show. “Defying all expectations and calling to the gods like that…”

“Oh, she can bite, I assure you.” Ellaria laughed. “I’ve heard how she put that old lion in his place effortlessly. Not fond of him much, I think.”

Oberyn growled. Talking about that murderer was not something he wanted to do while in bed with his paramour, he was loath to even mention him right now.

“So you decided to include her in our family, then?” he asked instead. “Just like that?”

Ellaria stilled and gave him a long intense look before she crawled into the bed and started to disrobe him. “I knew from the very beginning that we never could marry, Oberyn, and you knew that too. We also knew that one day, you could be forced to marry a suitable wife to produce a child that actually could inherit. You’re still second in line.”

Oberyn closed his eyes and breathed through his nose when Ellaria kissed his pulse point. It wasn’t their favorite topic but they had occasionally discussed all of that. Ellaria was right, of course, but neither of them had been too concerned with it. Doran was healthy and full of life and Trystane was a young and promising man who would soon marry and secure the line.

“The queen is young and very beautiful and according to everyone who knows her, she’s agreeable and not afraid of challenges,” continued Ellaria. “I would enjoy teaching her more about dornish customs… Oh, I would love to just watch you two… and maybe she would let me borrow one of her other consorts… Have you seen the Targaryen boy? He’s gorgeous! Also, let us not forget about our favorite knight…”

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?” smirked Oberyn.

“I did. The queen will be… Oh, how fitting, my love.” Ellaria had just revealed the burn on his chest and Oberyn glanced at it, blinking in surprise. It didn’t look like a recent burn and he was surprised to notice that there was no pain. How strange. The mark itself consisted of stylized pomegranate seeds and olive branches. It was the Mother’s symbol.

“I’ll give the queen as many children as she wishes,” agreed Oberyn with a grin and a chuckle. Ellaria smacked him across the chest, smirking.

“That’s not just it, though it surely helped sway the Mother’s decision,” she said. “It’s what the queen needs. A poor girl far from home trying to rule these reactionary lords with their stiff rules and stupid prejudices… She needs a man like you, Oberyn, who doesn’t differentiate between the sexes as the rest of them does. They made her their High Queen and they would happily smother all that makes her who she is.”

“You already like the queen,” breathed Oberyn out, surprised. He sat up and cradled Ellaria’s cheek in his hand. “You really do, don’t you?”

“She’s very pretty…” Ellaria winked at him. “And she is now bound to you, which means that she is a part of this family just as much as you or me or all our daughters. We look after our own.”

“We won’t invite the queen in our bed any time soon, you know that, though?”

“We shall see…But how about getting back to the matter at hand, my love?”

Oberyn gladly agreed and stripped off the rest of his clothes. He took great pride in proving to Ellaria why the Mother had chosen him. No one could say that Oberyn Martell did not care about his women’s needs.

***

When the night came, Oberyn couldn’t fall asleep. He was pleasantly tired and his mind had been put at ease by the afternoon he had spent with his paramour. They had enjoyed the company of several other girls and one young man from the city. The dornish prince could easily imagine including their young queen into their activities – seven hells, even that Targaryen boy would be welcome. As the night drew near, Oberyn was almost convinced that the Mother wasn’t completely wrong in choosing him. The rest of Westeros could benefit from the more laid-back dornish approach to life. The queen certainly would. Just lessons in juggling several lovers would come in handy.

Yet…

There was the matter of the queen’s golden and red consort.

If it had been any other Lannister, Oberyn would perhaps learn the meaning of mercy, even towards the lions. However, it was the Old Lion himself, the two-faced, backstabbing murderer who had proved that killing of innocent women was not beneath him.

How could Oberyn even trust that scum with the life of the queen?

An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of his stomach. Oberyn rose from the bed and shrugged on his tunic, running a hand through his hair. 

He couldn’t. It was that simple. As soon as the queen birthed an heir, the Lion would have her killed and seizing the child, he would appoint himself the Prince Regent.

The feeling of unease grew. He reached for some wine and swallowed several sips. Oberyn would never allow his child to be controlled in such fashion and he doubted any of the other consorts would. That meant that the other consorts would have to go, too.

It seemed logical to nip the problem in the bud.

Taking another sip of the wine, he glanced at his sleeping paramour. Ellaria was his wife in all but name. Since this morning, Oberyn had an official wife that was bound to his soul. He never had been a man too concerned with duty, he wasn’t his brother. But even Oberyn understood that there were certain things a man couldn’t shy from. Protecting his family was one of those things. Protecting one’s family was the only duty Oberyn would never neglect.

Failing that task, a man’s duty then was to avenge his family. Oberyn relished the idea of that.

He padded silently to his traveling chest and fiddled with the lock. Oberyn kept his poisons stored in a secure compartment of that chest and with a thoughtful expression selected the one he wanted to use. With a steady hand, he then coated his dagger with it. All it would take was a single scratch and the Old Lion would be no more come the morning.

He wasn’t smiling – killing an enemy like Tywin Lannister wasn’t a laughing matter and Oberyn needed to be discreet. Openly killing the consort was out of the question but he was giddy with anticipation – even though it was regretful that there would be no confession. After all those years, his sister would get her justice and Dorne would be satisfied even without that. The queen would be safe. In Oberyn’s opinion, it was a win-win situation.

Carefully sliding the dagger into its sheath, he secured it at his waist and reached for the wine once more. He rolled the next sip around his mouth for several minutes and then went as far as staining the front of his tunic with a few drops. Hotheaded he might be, but he was a viper nonetheless.

“My prince?” asked him one of his guards as soon as he stepped out of the door. Oberyn paused and looked at his men, considering carefully what was about to happen.

“Gather the men, we’re going to show the Lannisters how drinking is properly done!”

The guard blinked and his eyes flicked around until they settled at the hilt of Oberyn’s dagger. Then he smirked and nodded.

“We’ll show them, my prince.”

They were a seemingly merry bunch, singing and laughing and joking with wine jugs in their hands as they made their way through the corridors and pathways of the palace complex. Someone had been clever enough not to house the Dornish and the Lannisters near each other. As soon as they were close to the part of the keep where their quarry was hiding, Oberyn’s men started to sing a modified version of Rains of Castamere as they streamed out into one of the many courtyards of the keep. It might be slightly insulting to the lions but hilarious to everyone else.

When the self-styled lions heard their favorite melody without their favorite lyrics, the small courtyard was soon filled up with men in red and gold and the men happily traded insults.

The Old Lion himself soon appeared. “Prince Oberyn, it’s you again. Why am I not surprised?”

“I thought we could finish our conversation from earlier.” Oberyn grinned up at him and stumbled slightly. “This way, we won’t disturb anyone… or offend the delicate sensibilities of other consorts.”

“You’re drunk,” commented the Old Lion dryly. “And you brought half of your guards to have a discussion with me? My, my, things will certainly get interesting, won’t they?”

“I hate boredom. And you?” Oberyn watched from the corner of his eye as more and more men in red and gold poured into the courtyard. “Good, good! The more the merrier!”

“You do not want to cross me.” The Lion took a step closer, looking down his nose at Oberyn. “Go back to your rooms and sleep it off.”

“Why do I feel that an ‘or’ is coming?”

“Or you’ll regret stepping into my path tonight.”

Oberyn then noticed that the Lion clenched his fists. His expression was closed off and he wasn’t smirking for a change. One look into the older man’s cold eyes was enough to produce a familiar reaction in Oberyn. He knew the feeling well. His heart started to beat in anticipation of a fight, his senses sharpened.

“Just like my sister regretted ever trusting your word,” he spat. “Do you mean it like that?”

“What happened to your sister was unfortunate…”

“Lies! And we both know it! You killed her.” Oberyn was breathing heavily and hated the fact that the man in front of him was as calm as ever. Or was he? If he didn’t know any better, he would say that the unflappable Lord Tywin Lannister was enraged.

The Lion tensed and his eyes narrowed. “That’s a serious accusation, Prince Oberyn.”

“Do you deny it?”

“Categorically.” A shadow of a smirk appeared at the corners of the Lion's lips. He was mocking him, goading him.

They stared at each other for a moment longer. Oberyn’s hand slowly moved to the hilt of his dagger and he knew he couldn’t stab him through the heart. He had to scratch him, only a little graze would be enough. His hand clenched around the hilt. Now. Right now he would do it, Oberyn would avenge his sister and protect his new wife, the children the queen would bear in the future.

He… Would… Right… Now.

His hand started to shake and Oberyn realized that he couldn’t move it. He couldn’t draw the blade. What was happening?

“Did you come here with the thought of driving that blade into me?” asked the Lion and he was smirking fully. “Go on, try it, then.”

Oberyn wanted to wipe that smirk off the Lion’s face. He really did. Instead of drawing the dagger, his hand flew up all of its own accord and his fist smashed right into Lannister’s nose.

The older man turned to the side with the force of the punch and before Oberyn could react, Lannister’s uppercut sent him flying. Gods, the man was surprisingly strong.

Oberyn jumped to his feet. Gingerly touching his jaw, he nodded at the Lion. “That wasn’t a bad punch. For an old man.”

There was blood pouring from the older man’s nose and Oberyn hoped that it was broken. He watched as Lannister rolled his shoulders with a crack and spat out the blood that made it into his mouth.

“Attacking me was stupid,” he told him in a calm tone and then introduced Oberyn to his right hook before tackling him to the ground. All hell broke loose around them as the guards followed their lords’ example.

Oberyn immediately realized that it was Tywin Lannister who had an advantage on the ground. It hurt to acknowledge it, but the older man was not only taller and heavier, but he was also stronger than Oberyn and had a greater reach. Not to mention that he knew how to fight with his hands and wasn’t afraid of playing dirty.

It was ugly and reminded him of the fighting pits of his youth where everything was allowed as long as you could pull it off.

Eventually he ended up pinned to the ground. Oberyn couldn’t utilize his greatest gift – his speed – and he could only try and block the rain of punches to his face. After wrestling for several moments to get free, he managed to roll away and get back to his feet, quickly scoring a devastating kick to the Lion’s ribs.

“Enough!” cried a voice with a thick northern accent. “For gods’ sake, that’s enough!”

And that was how Prince Oberyn was tackled to the ground a second time in a row. He stopped struggling as he recognized that it was a Stark guard who held him down while another Northerner blocked the Old Lion from attacking.

Looking around himself, Oberyn was slightly surprised that there was a distinct lack of blood and severed body parts – and that servants from both households had somehow been dragged into the fray as well.

Seven bloody hells! Oberyn couldn’t believe that he had fought an old man to a draw. A draw! What was wrong with him today?

“Drunken brawls on the first night! The queen will give you piece of her mind when she wakens, be sure of that,” growled the Northman and added as an afterthought, “My lord.”

Somehow, Oberyn felt that his wife would not be happy with him.

***

Ellaria certainly wasn’t. His paramour was in the middle of a sound scolding as she cleaned up the numerous cuts and bruises on his face and body – there was a distinct bruise shaped like a lion head pressed into his temple – when the door to their chambers banged open.

For a moment, Oberyn thought that the Old Lion had come to settle the debt, but the man standing in the doorframe was not Lord Tywin Lannister. It was Stannis Baratheon.

“What in the seven hells was that?” he asked and crossed the room to stand next to them.

“Who are you to come barging in our rooms like that?” asked coldly Ellaria and glared up at him.

Lord Stannis turned to look at her, paused and then bowed slightly. “Pardon me, my lady. I am the queen’s consort. Lord Stannis Baratheon.”

Ellaria blinked in surprise and relaxed slightly. “Well, then. If you are here to yell at my paramour for his stupidity, you’ll have to wait for your turn. I’m not done with him.”

Oberyn winced and grimaced as she none too gently pressed a bandage to a long bleeding scratch on his forearm. “As you can see, my lord, if you are here to voice the queen’s displeasure, you don’t have to bother. I’m being informed of my idiocy already.”

Lord Stannis gave him a long, withering look. It was then that Oberyn noticed how exactly the man was dressed – the lacing on his doublet was done in a rush, his sword belt hadn’t been secured properly and the collar of his shirt was peeking out.

As someone who had been in the same situation numerous times, he easily recognized a man who had been just forced out of a woman’s bedroom. That irritated expression on Stannis’s face only confirmed Oberyn’s suspicions.

“Oh, I see! Sorry for ruining your night.” He slowly grinned up at the man. “I didn’t know you had it in you to move this quickly… But then again, the queen is quite a catch. Clever move to stake your claim as soon as possible…”

Ellaria smacked him. “Hush, don’t provoke him.”

“That’s quite alright, my lady,” said Stannis and glared down at Oberyn. “What is going on between Her Grace and me shall not be discussed, though. The queen deserves better than to be a subject of gossip like this.”

“Ever the gentleman…”

Stannis clenched his jaw and Oberyn decided to leave the poor man be. He was sympathetic to Lord Stannis – he would hate being interrupted while he was busy with the queen in the bedroom but the man’s primness was way too amusing.

“Consider your mission here done, my lord,” he told him, raised his hands in surrender and winked at Ellaria. “My love here will make certain that it won’t happen again… I learned my lesson, anyway.”

He had been aiming for a carefree tone, but Oberyn couldn’t help the bitterness at the end of his statement.

“What happened?” demanded the other consort immediately. He was sharp, wasn’t he?

“Did you know that we apparently can’t seriously harm each other?” he asked and sneered. “A punch to the face is one thing, but drawing a weapon at one another? That’s impossible.”

Lord Stannis was mulling his words over and then he grimaced. “Ah, damn it, then.”

“What?” Oberyn chuckled. “Have you also been considering a little bit of murder?”

He had not been expecting the wry smile that tugged at the man’s lips, nor the snort that followed. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your business. It’s late and there’s always a tomorrow.”

“It weighs on you heavily, doesn’t it?” asked Ellaria after they had been left alone. “That you can’t avenge your sister, that we’ll have to share the queen with him of all people.”

“Yes, it bothers me.” Shaking his head, he reached for Ellaria’s hand and kissed it. Oberyn glanced down at the mark and touched it lightly. He didn’t understand why he had been denied justice. How could the Father allow it? The gods couldn’t possibly allow a murderer like Tywin Lannister to run free. They couldn’t possibly defend him, make him untouchable… Or could they?

Maybe there was more to it, then. He had never known the gods’ decisions to be faulty. Unfathomable? Of course… but they were never wrong. To err was human, on the other hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone’s got a crush on Sansa and it’s not one of her husbands! Also, have you noticed that the consorts are a pretty violent bunch? I’m a little concerned where does it come from… and then I remind myself that this is Westeros, after all *shakes her head*  
> If Sansa was slightly less specific in her wording, the Mother would have picked Margaery. Seriously. Can you imagine those two ruling the Seven Kingdoms together in peace and harmony (poisoning their enemies at wedding parties if necessary)? I totally can. Since Margaery wasn’t available, the Mother went for one of her male favorites. That way, Sansa gets a husband who will give her children and the realm is at peace at least… because Oberyn can’t go and kill Tywin. The gods know what they are doing *chuckles*  
> I have lots of fun playing with characters’ personal histories in this story but Oberyn’s hatred for the Lannisters is something so fundamental to his character that I just couldn’t skip it entirely… Even though I wanted to make everything better for poor Elia *sighs*  
> We got a few glimpses at the remaining consorts, too. Trying to find a way around naming the characters was a little awkward but I hope it wasn’t too awful to read. Oberyn actually doesn’t know one of them and ignores the other in favor of glaring at Tywin. The Warrior’s chosen, he knows and is not about to cross swords with him. Ellaria wouldn’t be happy with Oberyn damaging that pretty face *grins* Well, I hope I did Oby’s and Ellaria’s characters justice on my first time writing them and that you had fun reading it…  
> So, ay or nay for Oberyn as the Mother’s pick? And Ellaria’s reaction? *winks*  
> Next time: the Warrior’s pick. I so want it to be a great surprise for you guys but I’m afraid I kind of fail at not dropping hints on you…


	5. The Warrior’s Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did the Warrior pick…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about the soulbonds: Tywin knows that you can’t harm your spouse and he strongly suspected that it transferred even to the other consorts harming each other – because that would harm Sansa. You can actually see him goading Oby to stab him, he’s that confident… And then he gets punched *giggles*
> 
> Oh, I so enjoyed reading your guesses… So, who was right, then? Let’s find out! *grins*

PART ONE, CHAPTER FIVE

_**The Warrior’s Choice** _

_“All knights must bleed. Blood is the seal of our devotion.”_

Jaime couldn’t find his father. With the queen asleep, he looked for him in his chambers but Lord Tywin wasn’t there. He looked for him down by the sea, where the Master of Laws liked to fish, but he wasn’t there either. After going through the whole keep, the knight realized that he had run out of places to look for him.

The Young Lion knew that he needed to talk to the Old Lion, though. Never before had been the need so great. Jaime wasn’t what Lord Tywin would call the best son in the world – but he was his son and he loved his family. If there was one thing Jaime had taken to heart from all those lessons Lord Tywin had tried to teach him, it was a simple fact that family was everything.

Not exactly the name, or the legacy – the members of the family, though, they truly were everything to Jaime.

Running his hand through his hair, the knight looked around helplessly. What a mess. He could imagine all those tongues wagging behind closed doors and in secluded corners. Hell, some gossips even did not have the decency to pretend that they were not smearing the queen’s name in public. He doubted that the Stark girl was thrilled by what had happened in the morning.

His father certainly wasn’t. Jaime had never seen him so livid as when he had stalked to attend to the queen… and Jaime had become pretty good at figuring out his father’s moods. It was a skill needed for survival at Casterly Rock, especially since Mother’s death. Jaime needed to do some damage control because gods knew that his siblings wouldn’t dare and Uncle Kevan was probably scared of Lord Tywin to even approach when the family patriarch was enraged. But it was more than that, wasn’t it? Shaken. His father had been also shaken deeply by something and his usually cold mask couldn’t hide that fact from his son.

He doubted that his father would go and do something openly stupid but the expression on Lord Tywin’s face had been terrifying and Jaime knew, he simply knew it, that blood would be spilled. The real question was – whose blood. Anyone crossing Lord Lannister’s path was in danger and Jaime would really hate to leave the capital in rush to avoid murder charges.

If he couldn’t find his father, how was Jaime supposed to take care of his family?

His agitation only grew when he caught a glimpse of Ser Jon arguing with the Starks right there in the corridors of the Red Keep. It didn’t take a genius to understand that the queen’s parents were not taking the whole situation well.

Jaime considered for a moment if he should go and rescue Rhaegar’s boy from the clutches of his relatives but decided against it. If he were in Jon’s shoes, he would want to fight his battles on his own.

Taking three quick steps backward, Jaime sped down another corridor. While he would love to jab at the honorable Eddard Stark, Jaime wasn’t stupid enough to get involved in the Wolves’ family drama just yet. He had enough of that in his own family… and riling the Northmen was so easy it wasn’t even fun anymore.

Jaime had no idea what his father could be possibly doing to calm his temper in King’s Landing. Back home, he usually visited Mother’s grave but here? He wasn’t fishing, he wasn’t the type to hide in his chambers or go and destroy opponents at the training grounds. Maybe a ride to clear his head?

Going through the keep once more, Jaime found himself at the stables and wandered among the horses. His father’s white stallion was still there, so that ruled out a ride. It was the moment that Jaime realized that if the Great Lion did not want to be found, searching for him was futile.

There was, however, a particular destrier missing. Looking around once more, Ser Jaime ordered his horse to be saddled.

***

Jaime saw his friend even from a distance. He was kneeling in front of the Warrior’s statue, his hands resting on the sword guard of his greatsword, the point in the ground. The sun reflected from the polished steel of his armor and the white blade glinted in the golden afternoon light. His head was bowed and he wore his helmet, a blue cloak flowing from his shoulders.

As Jaime approached, he raised his head. His eyes were tired and his face glistened with sweat. How long had he been kneeling there? The whole day?

“Ser Jaime,” he said, his voice rough. For a moment, he watched him, and then he returned to his previous pose of supplication.

Jaime swallowed, dismounted and led his destrier into the shade of near trees and a patch of short yellowish grass. Another tall warhorse was grazing there and he patted his neck.

With slow steps, Jaime then approached his friend once more. As a youth, Jamie had idolized the man in front of him. Many years had gone by since then and they had fought many battles side by side – for the Small Council, in the name of justice, or in defense of the innocent. One fact still remained, though. Ser Arthur Dayne was the best of them, of all those who called themselves knights. There was no better swordsman and there was no nobler man.

Jaime liked to think that he was the third best knight in whole Westeros – after Arthur and Ser Barristan.

“Ser Arthur,” he said and looked around, uncertain what to say or do now that he had found one of the queen’s consorts. The thought of facing his father was suddenly a much more daunting task. Jaime wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to say to Lord Lannister either.

They were atop a small hill with a view of King’s Landing. The blue of the ocean was shimmering in the distance while the fields of the Crownlands stretched out behind them. The small altar dedicated to the Warrior was the only reason why travelers would visit this place. If one was to believe the legends, the Warrior himself had led Aegon the Conqueror to this hill and showed him where to build his fortress from this viewpoint.

The summer sun was merciless and beat down on them. Jaime was uncomfortably hot in his light leather armor and could vividly imagine how awful Arthur must feel in a full plate in this weather.

“How long have you been here?”

“That depends on what time it is.” The reply was playful but there was nothing mirthful about the figure kneeling in the dust, broken. Jaime clenched his fists. The two men he respected and loved the most had been reduced to states he hated seeing them in. He detested how helpless he felt. Jaime couldn’t help his father and it seemed that there was nothing he could do for his friend.

“It’s five hours after noon.”

“That’d be seven hours, then.”

“Have you eaten or drank anything?” Jaime already knew the answer to that question but he had to ask anyway. Arthur glanced at him and then away.

“What can I do for you, Ser Jaime?”

Stumped by that polite question, Jaime ran his hand through his hair and then scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe… we could talk about this?”

“That won’t be possible. I’m in the middle of a prayer.”

“For six hours?” asked Jaime in disbelief.

“Seven,” corrected Arthur dryly. “Is there anything you need, my friend? If not, I’d ask you to leave me to my meditations.”

“Has he answered you?” Jaime wasn’t going anywhere. He tugged at his own cloak and spread it out on the ground, collapsing on it.

“He hasn’t deemed me worthy yet.”

“I doubt he will speak, then.”

“Yet here I shall remain.”

“I think the gods answer only the queen’s requests. Maybe if she were here with you, you’d have more luck.”

That finally got a reaction out of the knight. He turned and gave Jaime a warning look. “I don’t appreciate your attempts at humor. You are speaking about my queen. One more word and friend or not, I’ll have to defend her honor.”

“I wasn’t disrespecting her!” said Jaime hotly and gestured around. “Arthur, for gods’ sake! I spent the whole day looking for you or my father! He’s nowhere to be found and you are here, praying… What for? To have the gods change their minds? Sorry to inform you, but I don’t think it will happen…”

As Jaime spoke, his anger at the entire situation his family and his best friend had been put in got the better of him. It was one of his less admirable qualities. He was still rather hotheaded, according to most people who knew him.

Ser Arthur calmly looked at him. Then he slowly rose to his feet and sheathed Dawn. His expression remained calm, but his eyes darkened.

“I’d never question the gods’ decisions like that, I hope you know that.”

Jaime’s eyes widened. He had thought that Arthur had been upset by the bonding – his father definitely was and from what he had seen so far… everyone was upset by the fact that the little queen had gotten around their machinations and marriage plotting.

“So, what are you doing here?”

Heaving a deep sight, Arthur sat down next to him and looked out at the water. “You know what brought me to King’s Landing, Jaime.”

He nodded. His friend had been lucky enough to be born a second son. He had the freedom to choose his own path while Jaime was stuck with the prospects of ruling the Westerlands one day.

Arthur was a man of principles and his determination to be what a knight ought to be surpassed even his duty to his overlords. Jaime knew for a fact that Arthur hadn’t been in Dorne in years – and he could get away with that. He could freely travel the Seven Kingdoms and lend a helping hand to those in need. And gods knew that there always was the oppressed in need of a champion.

Yet serving the gods’ chosen ruler of Westeros was the greatest honor any knight could wish for. The accession to the Queen’s Guard was what had brought Arthur into the capital, that stinking rat’s nest, and he had been denied that opportunity.

“Well, I’m sure that begetting an heir with a beautiful woman is not a bad alternative.” It sounded much better than remaining celibate and serving as a glorified bodyguard to said woman.

“From what I’ve seen, Lord Lannister is hardly thrilled by his new marriage,” told him Arthur. “How would you feel in my place, my friend? If your whole life and your life’s purpose have been just turned upside down and disregarded by the higher powers?”

When he put it like that… Jaime grimaced. He had no idea how he would have reacted to being bonded to the queen – and sharing her with six other men at that. His father was going to hate it on principle. Lannister men did not like sharing what was theirs, it wasn’t in their nature.

“What do you want to do?” he asked instead of answering.

“What do you think I was praying for?” Arthur gave him a pointed look. “For guidance. I have no idea what to make of the situation. Until this morning, everything in my life was clear. I would have served Her Grace diligently until my dying breath if she had deemed me worthy of joining her guard. Now? What should I do now when serving her is not an option?”

“I think you’re not alone in your confusion,” answered Jaime thoughtfully. “The queen herself must be equally bewildered – even more than you and the rest of you royal consorts. I mean… Queen Sansa is so young…”

“That’s another thing. She is young enough to be my daughter.” Arthur heaved another sigh and glanced at the Warrior. The eyes of the statue were gazing somewhere over their heads. The god was not present, was not listening, was not about to offer his advice. He simply expected his chosen to deal with the situation on his own. Jaime didn’t doubt that the Sword of the Morning would eventually come victorious even from this conundrum.

“Many men are pleased with younger wives in their bedrooms,” remarked the younger knight and then raised his hands in apology. “Sorry! That was distasteful… But you can’t deny that her beauty is unmatched.”

“Don’t let your sister hear you,” smirked Arthur momentarily but then he grew serious again, his eyes thoughtful and dejected. “I have never met a woman more beautiful than Her Grace.”

Jaime gave his friend a careful look. He had known Arthur Dayne half of his life and they had been friends ever since the famous campaign against the Kingswood Brotherhood when Jaime had been knighted by Arthur himself. He had never in all those years of friendship heard Arthur compliment a woman because he liked her. He had paid compliments to various ladies and had been courteous and gallant as had been expected… But not a single maiden had ever caught his eye enough to turn his head.

Was it possible that the gentle little wolf from the North could have conquered the heart of the legendary Sword of the Morning? Maidens from Dorne to the Wall cried bitter tears of disappointment every time Arthur had appeared in their cities and villages without bedding one – or all – of them.

“You love her.” The realization was unexpected and Jaime would have laughed if it wasn’t so serious. The idea of Arthur in love was… it was unfathomable. His friend didn’t shy away from drinking contests, horse races or arm wrestling but he usually wasn’t interested in carnal pleasures, said numerous times that it took the attention off training.

An unusual approach in a Dornishman, true, but Jaime had always admired Arthur’s dedication to the art of war.

“Second sons of lesser houses could hardly hope to follow their hearts.” Arthur was silent for a moment and then he faced the Warrior, bowing to the god.

Jaime almost flushed in guilt then. Just moments ago, he had envied Arthur the fact that he was a second son, free to follow his own path – but was he, really? Without lands and titles, knights like Arthur depended on the goodwill of their fathers or brothers or their overlords. Not many of them had the same renown and income as the Sword of the Morning and even he couldn’t follow his heart if it led him to a highborn lady from a great house.

Jaime never knew restrictions like that. Lord Lannister had suffered Jaime’s obstinateness out of fondness for his son and the Young Lion could pursue his heart if he ever fell for a pretty maiden so hard to consider marriage. No one would be willing to say no to the heir of the Westerlands.

“How long have you felt like that?” he asked. It seemed that even after almost twenty years of friendship, Arthur still wasn’t done humbling Jaime and teaching him lessons.

“Where does a circle start? Where does it end?” Arthur shrugged and turned to look over at the water. “I can’t pinpoint the minute, the day. It was sometime between the moment Her Grace had looked me in the eye and my next breath. One day I woke and I knew that I was in love with an impossible dream.”

“It’s not so impossible anymore,” said Jaime with a smile, starting to feel happy for his friend despite the strangeness of the situation. At least one of the consorts would get something good out of this whole mess and Arthur was deserving of such a gift. He had no doubt about that.

“Serving Her Grace is no longer an option,” repeated Arthur, his eyes downcast. “Loving her? Oh, my friend, loving her as a man loves a woman is out of the question. Her Grace is deeply in love with Rhaegar’s boy, did you know that?”

Jaime’s smile froze and then he closed his eyes, shaking his head. He didn’t know that. He had seen Ser Jon the first time when he had been a wailing baby in Rhaegar’s arms - when their friend had been happy and in love with yet another wolf-girl of the North. Jaime hadn’t visited him ever since and then he had met the serious young man only two weeks ago in the role of the queen’s bodyguard. There had been rumors about the High Queen and her faithful guard, of course, but Jaime had learned long ago not to pay attention to them.

Arthur, though, had visited their friend’s son whenever his journeys had taken him north of the Neck. Perhaps out of misplaced guilt for not being there to save the father. Perhaps he liked to tell the boy stories about Rhaegar’s life. He never asked and Arthur had never told why he had been always traveling North. Jaime himself had been too busy juggling his adventures and his responsibilities to the Rock to join him on longer travels into the far reaches of the Seven Kingdoms. And he detested the Northmen and their humorless nature.

Well, now the most recent journeys made more sense, at least. The High Queen.

“I doubt the gods will help you with your questions,” Jaime said. “They bound you to her and her to you, but they can’t dictate what sort of relationship you two should share. Only you two can decide that.”

Arthur turned to look at him fully and nodded with a small smile. “You know, my friend, I think this is the wisest thing you have ever said.”

“Should I be offended?”

“Given your track record…”

They shared a short laugh and then Jaime clasped his friend’s shoulder and moved to stand up. “Come on, Arthur, you can’t stay here indefinitely. This has been a crazy day. Let’s get drunk.”

“The last time we got drunk together, you ended up challenging a certain lord to a duel over the hoof of his striking broodmare for your stallion. I do not want to repeat that ever again.”

“No worries, I won’t invite Tyrion along this time.”

Arthur chuckled, rose to his feet and with a deep bow toward the Warrior’s altar, followed Jaime to the horses. When they were riding back to King’s Landing with the sun in their eyes and lighter hearts, Jaime realized the full strangeness of the situation. His best friend was in love with Jaime’s stepmother.

In situations like this, he truly doubted the providence of the gods.

***

Word traveled fast and by the time Arthur had gathered enough resolve to seek out Her Grace, he had already heard everything about the night’s happenings. He couldn’t say that he was surprised that it had happened. He was rather ashamed that he had not thought about when.

As he watched the queen’s pale face and reddened eyes, Arthur cursed himself for not being there during the night. Maybe he could have prevented the fight as he had done earlier in the queen’s chambers. Maybe he could have stopped it sooner – before the whole households had gotten involved.

Her Grace hadn’t noticed him yet and Arthur observed her guards with a frown. They were Northmen and wore their leathers with proud direwolves on their chests. Trained soldiers, no doubt, but hardly good enough to protect the queen in this horrible city where one couldn’t trust their own shadow. She needed to name the Queen’s Guard as soon as possible and until then, Arthur would make sure that she was always protected.

The morning light filled the garden and Arthur watched, mesmerized, as she turned a page in the large book she was reading. He recognized the tome – it mapped out the lives of all god-marked rules of Westeros in the last three hundred years. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“One wouldn’t call it a light reading, Your Grace,” he said and walked into her private garden.

“Halt!” A man in black armor of the Targaryens appeared from behind the queen. “Not a step closer.”

“Ser Jon.” Arthur recognized him immediately and nodded at the younger man. It had been some time since he had seen the boy from this close. He had grown in many ways and it pleased Arthur to see that Rhaegar’s son was prospering and turning out to be a fine man.

Jon had his hand on the sword hilt at his side and stood protectively in front of the queen. The young man who reminded Arthur so much of his old friend nodded back at him but didn’t relax his stance. So she wasn’t entirely unprotected. That was good.

“What brings you here, Ser Arthur?” asked Jon seriously, his dark eyes never straying from the older knight. Arthur realized suddenly that he was regarded as a threat. In Jon’s eyes, he wasn’t trustworthy enough to approach the queen.

When had the boy started to regard him as such, he didn’t know. It was disconcerting. He had taught Jon how to joust, how to quickly disarm his opponents, how to always treat a lady with respect. Now he was Jon’s adversary?

Arthur mulled over his answer for a moment and then his eyes flickered over to the queen.

“It was my hope that I could talk to Her Grace this morning.”

“The queen is not giving audiences today, least of all to the consorts.” Jon’s tone was warning with an underlying hint of steel. Arthur became alarmed immediately. Had something else happened last night? Something had to spark such animosity toward the royal consorts.

“I understand that Her Grace is overwhelmed with the happenings of the last twenty-four hours…”

“Her Grace doesn’t appreciate when she is regarded as a piece of furniture. I’m capable of telling him off myself, Jon.” Her Grace leaned to the side to regard Arthur solemnly. “Ser Arthur.”

The knight was once again forcefully reminded of her beauty – even in her obvious sadness, it pierced him more deeply than the sharpest blade ever could. If he could only take all her pain for his own, he would do so gladly.

Arthur swallowed and went to kneel, bowing his head. “My beloved queen.”

“Beloved? Am I, truly?” she asked slowly. “Haven’t I destroyed your dreams and plans for the future with my selfishness, my lord?”

Their eyes met and Arthur breathed out sharply as he felt the vastness of her sorrow and guilt assaulted him. He did not flinch, he did not look away.

“Who has spoken to you so?” he demanded.

“Isn’t it the truth, though?”

“Sansa…” Jon turned and went to her. Arthur averted his eyes when the younger man reached out to clasp the queen’s trembling hand in both his, slowly sinking down to also kneel at her feet.

He remembered them both when they had been around seven and nine. They had enjoyed playing monsters and maidens and somehow, even as children, Jon had managed to end up at Sansa’s feet. Arthur supposed that their queen had always been the ultimate conqueror of human hearts.

“Jon. You know that it’s true – just as Ser Arthur knows it. Just as all the rest of them know it. I have done to six other men what the gods have done to me. I have irrevocably altered their lives without as much as by your leave! They must hate me!”

“Lord Sta-”

“If I may,” Arthur spoke loudly. He could see that young Jon was gearing up for an argument and honestly, Arthur believed that arguing with a lady was in bad taste. Arguing with one’s wife was sometimes inevitable, he supposed, but one should carefully choose their battles. This was not the right time to fight with the queen. “I don’t believe any of the consorts truly hate you.”

Two sets of eyes turned toward him and Arthur had the unpleasant impression that they had momentarily forgotten that he was also there. His shoulders rose and then fell as he shrugged. “They’re possibly upset that they were denied any say in the matter. They are confused and lashing out. I understand that. You, my queen, are the obvious target. But anyone with common sense has to see that your husbands were not your choices. You did nothing but petitioned to the gods and the gods have answered you of their own will.”

The queen was looking at Arthur as if she had never seen him before. Her eyes moved to Jon and she smiled. Arthur trained his gaze at the ground, unwilling to let them see how that simple smile affected him.

Haven’t the gods given him enough already? He had glory and fame, he had been blessed with abilities beyond other men’s wildest dreams. He had been granted the opportunity to spend the rest of his life close to the only woman he had ever loved. Wasn’t that enough?

If he had been a Queen’s Guard, loving from a distance would have been enough. It should be enough even know. But Arthur couldn’t help the traitorous thoughts creeping into his mind. He wasn’t a selfish man, and he detested envy and jealousy but he couldn’t help the stab of wistfulness. Oh, to have such a smile directed at him… He would slay a hundred Smiling Knights or traveled to the seven hells and back.

“Could you leave me with Ser Arthur alone for a few moments, Jon?”

Arthur watched from the corner of his eye as the queen and her young husband communicated without words. He could tell that Jon didn’t like it – the glare he sent in Arthur’s direction was more than telling – but he rose to his feet and with a bow went out of the garden.

“You three, too,” ordered Her Grace and the Northmen nodded, bowed and disappeared.

“I’m sorry for Jon, he doesn’t like this situation much,” said the queen when they were finally alone. “Please, come and sit next to me, good Ser.”

He had never been alone with the queen – not even when she had been just a child. Suddenly feeling apprehensive, Arthur rose and moved to sit on the stone bench. He smiled slightly and moved her book away. “Have you found any reassurance in the book, Your Grace?”

She returned his smile – hers was dim and hesitant. “If my predecessors faced the problems I seem to face with my bonds, they were clever enough not to advertise that fact.”

“It’s the gods’ will,” said Arthur and ignored the way his heart wanted to burst with the experience of sitting close to the object of his affection. “We have to have faith in their decisions. All will be well, my queen.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked him, her big blue eyes trained on him and studying his expression intently.

“I do.” Arthur was surprised by the certainty in his voice. His own doubts did not matter – they were only his own. He believed the gods had chosen the queen’s consorts for a reason that was maybe not clear now but would become so later.

He couldn’t stand the queen’s sadness and uncertainty. He wasn’t sure how but he could feel it, deep down, in his own heart like a distant echo and it tore at something inside him. “I will make it so if it’s in my power.”

She was stunning in the morning sunlight, her eyes bluer than the ocean. Her beauty pained him because Arthur knew that it wasn’t his right to wish for…

Her Grace sharply inhaled and surprise flooded his body. Her gaze roved around Arthur’s face, flicking between his eyes several times, and then settled at his mouth. He swallowed and leaned slightly toward the queen. His own gaze strayed down to her slightly parted lips. The need to kiss her was almost unbearable now. There was an unexplainable force that seemed to pull him closer and Arthur wasn’t able to resist.

With a sigh, Her Grace leaned toward him, too. They shared the same breath and when she looked up into Arthur’s eyes, he was lost.

He pressed his mouth to hers and closed his eyes. He could swear that he had been just struck by lightning. Every nerve ending in his body tingled and he couldn’t breathe for one long moment. Then Her Grace breathed air into his lungs, fire into his veins and life into his body. He wasn’t even aware that he hadn’t been alive until this very moment.

He leaned away only far enough to whisper, “I have died and went to heaven. Only there I can freely admit my heart’s deepest secret – I love, Sansa.”

Sighing into the kiss, she melted into Arthur’s embrace. The knight who had never before known fear was in that moment suddenly terrified that this was just a fleeting dream, only a feverish wish of a lovestruck mind, and he tightened his hold around her.

Holding Sansa in his arms filled him with such a feeling of rightness he had never imagined possible. His place was and ever had been at the High Queen’s side in whatever capacity she wished.

Arthur tasted salt and when he opened his eyes, he saw the queen crying silently. He leaned away and framed her face with his hands, wiping the tears away gently. “Your Grace? What is it?”

“Those are happy tears, Ser Arthur,” she told him and smiled through them, her eyes bright and mouth swollen from their kissing. Raising her hand to trace the line of his jaw, she laughed. “I can’t explain it but I am happy. Can you feel it, too?”

“I can, my queen.” Arthur chuckled deeply and rested his forehead against hers briefly before stealing one last kiss from her lips. “I’ve never been happier. You make this summer day warmer, the light brighter, my heart lighter.”

“And you bring me hope, my lord,” Sansa whispered. “Hope that I can make this work, that I… we… can be if not happy, then at least content in our situation…”

“I have faith in you,” said Arthur with conviction. “The gods have chosen you to be our High Queen. They have chosen me and the others to serve you in your task. With faith on our side and that stubborn determination typical for you Northerners, I can’t imagine how you could possibly fail. And if you do, I will be always there to raise you up again. That I swear on my life.”

As soon as those words left Arthur’s mouth, he felt a tingle over his heart where the mark of the Warrior had been burnt into his skin. Sansa gasped and touched her bandaged forearm with a knowing smile. When she raised her eyes to him, she was beaming.

“The Warrior heard you and I dare say he was pleased with what you said, Husband.”

He had never thought that someone would call him their husband. From Sansa’s lips, it sounded just about right and he bowed his head. “I aim to please.”

Sansa raised her hand and ran her fingers through his short hair. He knew that they were already peppered with grey but he closed his eyes and enjoyed her caress. Then he captured her hand in his and kissed her palm – right in the center of the mark there. He wondered how she would receive more kisses, to more than her palm.

A shudder ran through Sansa and Arthur swallowed drily before he blinked at her. “I am sorry, Your Grace.”

“I believe it is an aftereffect of the bonding, Ser Arthur,” she breathed out. “We’ll share this life together, and we’ll share everything in it as well.”

“I couldn’t be more honored.” Arthur bowed over her hands and then smiled up at her and hefted the book into his lap. “It would be also my honor to read for you for a moment or two. What do you say, my beloved?”

The queen blushed prettily at being called such and Arthur hid his pleased smirk behind the book. His sparkling eyes must have given him away because Sansa swatted his arm. “Yes, Ser Arthur, please do.”

Arthur cleared his throat before starting. From time to time, his eyes strayed to the woman sitting by his side and he smiled. When she had caught him for the third time, Her Grace reached for his hand and did not let go. The Sword of the Morning then wondered how he could have believed that loving her from afar could ever be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommyginger! You guessed it right! *jumps up and cheers* Seriously, how do you know what I plan to write? Is it even fun to read it later and have your suspicions confirmed? *blinks and scratches her head thoughtfully*  
> So, Sansa doesn’t get to have a husband from the Reach after all. Olenna’s gonna be so disappointed… Or isn’t she? Who knows? *winks*  
> The Warrior had so many options simply because the medieval world is filled up with guys capable of wielding swords quite well. He considered Stannis as you know. Then there was Sandor and Loras and I can give you my reasons for not picking them later if you’d be interested in my mad ramblings, but my ANs are getting progressively longer with each new chapter as it is *grins*  
> My personal reason for going with the Sword of the Morning: I seriously detested that the best swordsman in the world was stabbed to the neck from behind and then killed by his own magical sword… That damaged my view of Ned a lot… And when Ser Arthur confessed that he is in love with Sansa, well… He was the only candidate for Sansa’s courtly love husband. The guy is a maiden’s dream of songs and stories come true… Jon’s got some serious competition here.  
> Also, the gods did conspire with each other about their choices for Sansa long before Sansa was even born… because they are gods and have the Crone among their midst, so they are preparing accordingly. Their ultimate goal is to have a prospering, united Westeros, and everything the gods do pushes their people closer to that goal even if they resist it at first… like… soul-bonding certain people together… but under certain conditions… hints… hints… (damn, I did it again!)  
> Oh, and before you ask, Jaime wasn’t considered at all because blatantly favoring the Lannisters would lead to some serious trouble among the rest of the houses. Also, can you imagine how awkward it would be for Sansa? Being married to both father and son?  
> Anyway, ay or nay for Arthur as the Warrior’s pick?  
> Next time: the Stranger’s pick… And I guess I can’t avoid Stark seniors any longer *sighs*


	6. The Stranger’s Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did the Stranger pick…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without further ado, let’s get to the Stranger’s pick… Oh, wait, no. Let’s first have a look at poor Jon dealing with his in-laws *grins evilly*

PART ONE, CHAPTER SIX

_**The Stranger’s Choice** _

_“That man scares me.”_

Jon felt like he had been hit over the head with a blunt object. Repeatedly. He was married to Sansa. It was hard to believe that his greatest dream had become true. It was even stranger how it had happened. And it was decidedly less pleasant that his queen had been also bound to six other men she hardly knew.

He couldn’t imagine how this could work. It was unheard of. Jon wasn’t a dedicated student of history to be able to tell if it had worked out well for the other rulers or not. He was just terribly afraid that Sansa would end up hurt. He had resigned himself to the fact that he would see the love of his life married to another man. If he was more like his father, he would have abducted the queen and run with her over to Essos. He was more like his uncle, though, so he had buried his heart and soldiered on, only dreaming of having Sansa in his arms again.

The price of his wish was too high, in Jon’s opinion. He would rather see Sansa somewhat satisfied in the arms of another, then being in a situation like this, being chained to men so different from her. Then again, he had always known that the gods were cruel, their mercy a double-edged sword.

He still debated with himself if leaving Sansa with Lord Stannis had been a good idea… But the truth was, he was barely able to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept. It certainly hadn’t been in the last two days. Or weeks. Or months.

He stopped and rocked at the balls of his feet. Jon wasn’t entirely sure why he had left his queen with Lord Stannis. Uncle Ned had always spoken highly of that man – not with the same exasperated fondness which Lord Stark reserved for Lord Baratheon, but with respect. The task of earning Uncle Ned’s respect was far harder than earning his fondness.

Jon supposed that he had adopted the same approach toward the middle Baratheon brother. The man was the best of the bunch and he doubted he could entrust Sansa’s life to any of the others.

With a slight shudder, he recalled some of the others. It did nothing to ease his mind. Then he grimaced and continued toward his own chamber, going over the royal consorts in his head.

Ser Arthur probably wasn’t bad either – but Ser Arthur had always brought up uncharitable thoughts. Jon had good memories of the man as he had been growing up. As a boy, he had been over the moon when the Sword of the Morning had personally taught him how to be a better swordsman and rider. Robb had been so jealous – until Ser Arthur had invited the Stark heir along. But as Jon had started to understand why he had been carted off to the North, why he hadn’t been growing up in the Crownlands with his father’s family, why he had been regarded as a bastard in the South, he had started asking questions.

If Ser Arthur was such a paragon of virtue and if he had been his father’s best friend, why he had allowed Lord Rhaegar to dishonor his first wife and seduce a young girl into running away from her home and family?

While the rest of the world regarded Ser Arthur Dayne as the best knight to ever live, he did not pass Jon’s muster of what being an honorable man and a good friend meant. Jon wouldn’t allow Robb to do something stupid – he would kick him in the knee and bind him, most likely. Not help him…

“Jon! Careful, son!”

“Lord Stark! I’m sorry…” Jon had been so lost in his thoughts that he had almost run into Uncle Ned. He sent him a quick smile and bowed deeply to his wife. “Lady Stark.”

“Where are you going, Jon?” Uncle Ned grasped his shoulder in alarm. “Sansa is alright, isn’t she?”

“She is resting,” said Jon and ignored the cold glare his mother-in-law sent his way. He had never had the best relationship with Lady Stark – well, she had been welcoming enough when he had been a boy, but ever since she had started to suspect that Jon loved her daughter, Lady Stark’s attitude had cooled considerably. “The Grand Maester told us that she’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about. He also advised us not to disturb her.”

Uncle Ned nodded and glanced at his wife. “What do you think, Cat? Shouldn’t we leave Sansa to her rest?”

“I want to see my daughter,” replied Lady Stark. “A lowly knight will not tell me what to do or not to do with regards to my own flesh and blood.”

Jon felt his spine stiffen. Sometimes he felt like a real bastard when Lady Catelyn spoke about him like that. His parents’ indiscretion had cast a long shadow, though, and he was used to this. Replying calmly, he trained his gaze at her, “Sansa’s health and wellbeing are my priority. If a maester says she needs to rest, I’ll make certain that she will do so.”

“Just who do you think…”

“I’m her husband.” Jon relished the way Lady Stark fell silent, momentarily at loss for words. Eyes then shifting to Uncle Ned, he added, “Honestly, my lord, Sansa’s unconscious. I’ll let you know when she wakes up immediately.”

“You must be so proud of yourself, Ser Jon,” said Lady Stark bitingly. “Was it you who advised her to adhere to that ridiculous tradition? Are you satisfied, now? You got what you wanted, after all. You call her your wife. If you destroyed my daughter’s future life and happiness with your selfish desires is secondary to you.”

“Cat-”

“That’s alright, Uncle,” Jon replied. “If this is your opinion, my lady, I hardly have anything else to say to you.”

His greatest weapon against his mother-in-law was his polite calmness. Lady Stark had always thought that her daughter had been born to be something more than the wife of a lord of a small holdfast. She had opposed their betrothal with everything she had but eventually, Lord Stark had managed to make her see reason. Arya had been shamelessly eavesdropping on her parents and then had happily told Jon everything she had heard.

The greatest argument for Jon and Sansa’s marriage had been Uncle Ned’s simple question – how happy would have Lady Catelyn been if she had married Brandon instead of him? Even if he did not see eye to eye with her, Jon knew that Lady Stark wanted only the best for her children. It just happened that she did not consider Jon to be good enough to be Sansa’s husband.

“You don’t deny it!”

“Of course I did not know what Sansa planned to do!” Even Jon’s determination to remain calm and polite was wearing away under these circumstances. “I would have told her not to play with the higher powers, my lady.”

“The gods have decided it and we need to respect their decision,” said Uncle Ned and wrapped his arm around Lady Stark’s waist. “I know you’re terrified for our baby girl, but picking fights with Jon won’t change a thing, Cat.”

Lady Stark blushed and turned away. “She doesn’t deserve this, Ned! You know that!”

Jon politely gazed to the side. He heard the hitch in Lady Stark’s voice clearly. What was worse, he completely understood his wife’s mother. Didn’t he feel the same doubts? Wasn’t he also so terribly afraid for Sansa?

“Seven men! One husband is more than enough, let alone seven! Gods! And children?! Our grandchildren, Ned! Have you even thought about what does this mean for her? Sharing a bed with seven men?”

“I know, Cat, I know,” sighed Lord Stark and tried to press a kiss to her temple, looking a little green at the topic of conversation. Jon was dumbstruck. He had not even thought about marital duties!

“How can you two be so calm about it?” she asked. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

Jon wouldn’t say he was calm – he was aghast and was sure that he was turning the same shade of green as Uncle Ned. He wasn’t completely unaware of what happens behind closed doors, of course, but the matters between a husband and a wife had only been an abstract concept in his mind so far. He had always expected to be able to figure it out in time, walking the path of discovery alongside Sansa. The idea that they probably wouldn’t have that luxury was actually making him very uncomfortable. Especially when Jon realized that one of the consorts was Prince Oberyn Martell, who had a reputation to have… exotic… tastes…

“What would you have me to do?” asked Uncle Ned resignedly and relaxed his hold on her. At least Jon wasn’t alone in his utter confusion by what Lady Stark wanted them to do.

“Anything but this awful resignation, Eddard!” Glaring at him, Lady Stark poked him in the chest, sent another glower in Jon’s direction, and marched away.

Nephew and uncle shared a look and then Lord Stark shrugged.

“I can’t honestly blame her for that reaction. This whole situation makes me want to start beheading certain people with Ice.”

“I still can’t believe that this is happening,” Jon chuckled humorlessly. “What should I do, Uncle?”

Ned was silent for a moment and looked off into the distance. Then he patted Jon’s shoulder and said, “I can’t tell you what to do or not to do. You are a man grown. But as a father, I ask you to protect my daughter, Jon. She’ll need you now more than ever.”

“I won’t let you down. I won’t let Sansa down.” Jon nodded solemnly.

“Good. I’m going to find Cat before she starts neutering my other sons-in-law.”

Jon watched him walk away and then he closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. He couldn’t wait to collapse on his bed and sleep the whole morning off. Pycelle had said that Sansa would sleep for several hours at least. Maybe, just maybe, this would turn out to be some bizarre dream and Jon would wake up back in Winterfell, happily betrothed to Sansa.

***

Sleep didn’t come easily. Whenever Jon closed his eyes, he remembered the events of the morning. It would replay again and again in his mind. He would watch Sansa collapse, he would feel the burning and the pull toward her – and he would see the others gathering around the fallen queen.

Jon slept fitfully throughout the afternoon and when he gave up, it was dark already. Restless and fidgety, he put on his tunic and went to check on Sansa. The handmaidens told him that the queen was still sleeping and that Lord Baratheon had fallen asleep in the chair as well and they did not dare to disturb them.

Jon decided to let Lord Stannis sleep for now – he would relieve him of the guard duty later. He went to the kitchens instead where he was sure not to meet any noble lords or ladies. He definitely wasn’t in the mood to be polite to brownnosers.

Then he wandered into the gardens and his feet took him to the sept located there. Jon was as religious as any other man, he supposed, and he knew that lighting the candle at the Maiden’s altar was the least he could do, even if he had no idea how this all would turn out.

Jon was surprised to discover that the small sept already had a visitor.

He stopped at the entrance and grimaced. Of course, it had to be one of the others. Not that Jon had tried to avoid them – he just did not particularly wish to face any of them yet. Those tense moments in Sansa’s chambers earlier had been enough for him.

There was a strange coldness in the air and Jon felt chills run down his spine as he entered the sept. It made him think of the Wall and of what lied beyond it, ice and snow and mystery.

The man kneeling at the Stranger’s altar turned his head to look over his shoulder at Jon. He regarded him silently for a moment, before saying, “Ser Jon.”

“Good evening, Lord Bolton,” said Jon politely with a bow and tried to ignore the discomfort. “Sorry for disturbing your prayer.”

“That’s alright. We were done, the Stranger and I. Come in. I imagine you’re here to pay respect to your goddess.” Lord Bolton rose to his feet and gestured for Jon to come closer.

As he did so, a murmur of something went through Jon and the air grew suddenly warmer – as one would expect on a summer night. He inched closer, his eyes never leaving the older man. Was the other consort also paying respect to the god who had chosen him? It seemed logical but Jon couldn’t shake off feeling that there was something more going on. The way Lord Bolton spoke about the Stranger implied a deeper meaning. Didn’t it?

The Maiden and the Stranger were opposite to each other and the sept was too small for Jon and Lord Bolton to occupy the same space.

The Lord of the Dreadfort watched him expressionlessly for a moment and then he stepped to the side and moved to lean against the wall. “I’d like to speak to you when you’re done.”

“As you wish.”

Jon could feel the man’s eyes burning a hole into his back as he lit the candle and knelt on the ground. It was disconcerting and he remembered Robb’s words from a long time ago: ‘That man scares me.’ Nothing was probably more accurate – even as a grown man, Jon felt uncomfortable in Lord Bolton’s company. The whole of the North kept whispering about what was happening behind the Dreadfort’s high walls, in those deep dungeons under the keep. Flaying had been outlawed in the North two decades ago but you couldn’t teach an old dog new tricks. There was a reason why his cousin was scared of the man and why Lord Eddard hadn’t tried to investigate the rumors concerning the second most powerful house in the North.

Jon was also keenly aware of the fact that Lord Bolton’s three wives had all ended up dead. It did nothing to put the young man at ease.

He couldn’t focus on his prayer and only managed to thank the goddess for her mark and blessing, for the opportunity to continue loving the queen despite all odds. He wouldn’t throw his chance away and he would never leave Sansa’s side as long as she would want him there.

“All done?” asked Lord Bolton as Jon rose to his feet. “That was quick.”

“What can I do for you, my lord?” asked Jon politely and returned his gaze. It was like staring into a deep bottomless abyss. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of emotions in Lord Bolton’s face.

“Let’s talk about our unusual situation, Ser Jon.” The older man started to walk to the entrance and Jon had no option but to follow. They were silent as they left the sept and continued down the path leading to the keep’s outer walls.

Lord Bolton then stopped and leaned his elbows on the wall, watching the ocean roar below. Jon did not feel like approaching any closer. He had the distinct impression that Lord Bolton was calculating how long would be a fall from the battlements.

“You were betrothed to the queen before,” started Lord Bolton finally and turned to look at Jon. “I suppose that you feel a great affection toward Her Grace, then.”

“I do,” he agreed slowly.

Lord Bolton nodded and then turned to watch the water again. “I wondered… Will you be getting in the way of the other consorts?”

The question surprised Jon. It actually meant if he would be getting into Lord Bolton’s way, didn’t it? The other consorts were not men to be trifled with. Jon was aware of that, but he was not afraid to go up against any of them if it was necessary… but what if Bolton meant it in a more personal manner? Lady Stark’s word ringing in his ears, he couldn’t wrap his mind about what Bolton was actually talking about.

“I don’t understand your question, my lord.”

“Ramsay doesn’t like you,” said Bolton in reply and glanced at him. “Says talking to you is like pulling teeth… But you will give me a straight answer, will you not, Ser Jon?”

“I’ll be where the queen wants me to be. If it happens to be in your way, then it will be so.”

“We Northmen are practical people, Ser Jon, and you grew up in the North.” Lord Bolton turned to him fully. There was a slightly amused expression on his face now. “Wasting time with arguments among ourselves will not help matters. The summer is already ending – don’t tell me you don’t feel the change in the air? It’s noticeable even this far south. You know what that means? Wildling invasions. With the Starks playing kings and queens down here, who will bear the brunt of those invasions? So, I ask again, will you get in my way, or will you actually be useful, Ser Jon?”

Jon gaped at him for a moment and then he closed his mouth with a snap and braved a step closer. He hadn’t actually thought about that. Uncle Ned was not going to abandon the queen in the viper’s nest that was King’s Landing alone. The whole family had come here for the coronation and to support the gentlest of the northern wolves. But could they all stay, leaving the North vulnerable? Doubtfully. The only Stark currently in Winterfell was Uncle Benjen but he would need to return to the Wall and soon.

“I don’t even remember what winter is like.” He also looked down at the roaring ocean.

“Winter in the North is merciless and north of the Wall, it’s downright cruel. Your eyes water from the cold and your tears immediately freeze on your cheeks.” The answer was to the point. “The Wildlings fight for their survival and that makes them fierce and dirty fighters. The Night’s Watch numbers have been dwindling for decades and more and more they need support from local lords. They would otherwise fail their sacred vows. I led the defense of our northeast borders when I was your age, for example. It’s not something your Uncle would tell you or his daughter, though, and there hasn’t been a High King to complain to until now.”

Jon was silent as he thought over Lord Bolton’s words.

“You want to strengthen the Night’s Watch?” asked Jon slowly.

“Among other things.” Lord Bolton raised an eyebrow. “This realm has more than one border, hasn’t it?”

Jon suddenly felt very stupid and very young. The realm had more than one border, of course, and it had its fair share of troubles and problems, too. Jon had enough common sense to realize that he was nowhere close to starting to understand what those problems even were. Lord Bolton with his northern practicality seemed to. The other consorts – however Jon disliked it – were probably chosen for the exact same reasons. How could a northern queen possibly know what ailed the Dornish? The Stormlanders? He had no idea what problems his father’s land contended with.

An incredibly distracting thought occurred to him. If Sansa had not asked the gods to choose her husbands, was it somehow possible that these men would have found their way into her company anyway? Or had the gods always known that Sansa had been going to ask them? Was it all a part of some plan?

“It’s a matter you should discuss with Her Grace,” he told the lord, feeling ill at ease. Why the Maiden had chosen him, then? He was just a lowly knight – not powerful, not knowledgeable, without any noticeable talent… Not good enough to be the queen’s consort.

“I shall.” Lord Bolton nodded, apparently satisfied with the knowledge that Jon would not hinder his efforts. Sidestepping him, he started to walk away before he stopped and added with something like amusement lurking in his eyes, “At least I shall attempt to do so. With seven of us, the queen may be quite busy with other concerns.”

With that parting jab, the Lord of the Dreadfort left Jon to brood in the darkness.

***

Sansa had no idea how long she had been on the ground. Her tears had dried and there weren’t any left to shed. Her throat hurt. She felt awful, curled into a ball on the rug in her parlor.

Then, something very strange happened. Instead of that unbearable guilt she had felt, a sense of calmness swept over her and she suddenly knew that she wasn’t alone. A cold hand reached for her, a rough palm pressing against her cheek and urging her to look up.

Not as startled as Sansa should have been, she raised her face to see Lord Bolton’s pale eyes regarding her evenly.

It was a shock to know that he was one of her husbands – but just as quickly as it came, it faded away. The calmness returned and Lord Bolton smirked at her bewildered expression.

“Queen Sansa,” he said quietly, “I’m going to help you up.”

Sansa nodded before she could fully comprehend what he was saying – and how. He was treating her like he would a wild animal that spooked easily by loud talking or sudden movements. She should feel offended. Sansa was not some fragile damsel in distress to be treated like this…

Yet when the man reached for and actually lifted her from the ground entirely, she only managed to whisper, “Thank you, Lord Bolton.”

He brought her to the table and helped her sit down, silent and swift in his movements. Sansa then watched him as he poured her a goblet of wine and thankfully accepted it. She knew that she should be both surprised at him being one of her consorts and him actually being here with her in the early hours of the morning. She was neither and she couldn’t explain why, or what was happening.

“I couldn’t help but feel your distress,” he said after she took a sip. “It was most uncomfortable and I went to investigate. I hope I’m not overstepping, my queen.”

If he had been able to feel her distress, she had the bond to thank that for. Just like she had been bothered by the sight of Lord Lannister’s injuries, it seemed logical that emotional distress was going to trigger the bond. She just found it strange that he would know to seek her out. She had met him numerous times but they never truly interacted.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked in a thin voice which she hated.

Lord Bolton moved to pour another goblet for himself and took a careful sip. Sansa got the distinct impression that he did not wish to answer, that he was uncomfortable answering, but then his eyes flicked to her and he said, “I consulted both the High Septon and the Grand Maester about the matter.”

“You investigated the bond,” Sansa stated, rather impressed at the simplicity of that idea. She knew for sure that Stannis had been with her the whole day and she had no doubt that Lord Lannister didn’t have any need for investigating something he had been intimately familiar with. She liked to believe that the same idea would have occurred to her in the morning.

“Would you like me to share what I’ve found with you?” he offered.

“It would be most kind of you, Lord Bolton.” Sansa knew that the bond was for life – that it actually transcended beyond. She knew that it responded strongly to physical and emotional hurt and obviously allowed for the transfer of emotions. She told him so and he nodded.

“There isn’t much else to say, seeing that soulbonds are extremely rare and according to the maester, each bond between two people is unique. What the bond can transfer depends on its strength which in turn depends on the individuals bound by it and on the god or gods who forge it.” He took another sip and then his gaze settled on her fully. “As you can guess, there is known next to nothing about soulbond existing between more than two people. The High Septon was positive that each of the consorts is bound only to you. The Grand Maester disagreed that such bonding would be extremely unstable and dangerous to your person. We can safely assume that the gods would not risk your life, so I am almost positive that some sort of a weaker link exists even between each of us.”

“Have you found anything about the varying strengths of bonds?”

“It’s quite clear that our union has been forged by all of the Seven and let us be honest, not single one of us can be considered weak.” Lord Bolton shared with her a small smile but his pale eyes remained expressionless and Sansa simply knew that he wasn’t exactly thrilled about being bound to seven different people. The thought of how much this changed their lives – all of their lives – was staggering. “There are recorded cases of people being able to pick up the emotions of their bondmates at a short distance when the bond reached its full potential. It’s the most usual side-effect.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide. It was very disturbing, it violated her consorts in unimaginable ways. Jon was introverted, as was Stannis… And she had a distinct feeling that Lord Lannister valued his privacy greatly and guarded it fiercely. An almost hysteric sound escaped her throat as she gazed at Lord Bolton – he, too, was she right? No one really knew him, he was a quiet, withdrawn man. He surely hated this.

As if to prove her right, Lord Bolton nodded with a slight grimace. With a sigh, he braced himself to continue, “Other… Stronger bonds allowed the bonded pair to actually project these emotions and affect their partners.”

Another wave of calmness swept through her and she finally recognized it as his. How he could be this composed was beyond her but she was thankful for his influence. If it weren’t for Lord Bolton, she was sure that she would be overwhelmed by now. Nodding, Sansa closed her eyes. Even though she wasn’t panicking, she did not feel that good.

When she opened her eyes, she found Lord Bolton looking at her with a peculiar expression in his eyes while his face remained passive. Then he reached out to her, offering her his hand palm up looking just as startled by that gesture as Sansa.

She linked their hands together without hesitation. The touch grounded her some more.

“The bond,” he said and Sansa would have retched if it weren’t for Lord Bolton’s influence. He had been the unfortunate husband closest to her at the moment. He had just been compelled to seek her out because of her distress wreaking havoc with his own emotions. He had just offered her his hand in comfort – not because Lord Bolton himself wanted to, but because the bond forced him to.

Everything would be like this with the others, wouldn’t it? Except for Jon, every one of her husbands would be forced to attend to her without any other choice. No wonder Lord Lannister had been so furious. He must hate her.

Sansa desperately wanted to slip her hand from Lord Bolton’s grasp but at the same time, the comfort the simple gesture provided was too much to pass up. She didn’t dare to look into his eyes, though. Sansa couldn’t feel it but she was certain that the Lord of the Dreadfort had to hate her, too, for doing this to him, to them all.

They called him emotionless, she remembered, but only in the last several short moments, Sansa had already glimpsed his embarrassment and uncertainty. She felt his calmness that he pushed through the bond toward her. It wasn’t hard to imagine that with the tight control he had over his emotions, he was hiding his hatred from her easily.

Lord Bolton squeezed her hand briefly in reaction to the spike of Sansa’s self-loathing.

“Did you think you would ever marry again?” she asked him. His last wife – a young Frey girl Sansa believed – had died just recently delivering a stillborn baby into this world. It was awful – to lose both his wife and their child at the same time and then being forced to marry another woman.

His eyebrows rose in surprise before he shook his head.

“No, my queen.” For a moment, he observed her carefully and then added, “My oldest already has two small children and while Ramsay is a disappointment, I do not lack heirs. The dowry my last wife had brought with her was also quite considerable, so I did not think about marrying again.”

He hadn’t cared about his late wife. Sansa nodded, distracted. Lord Bolton’s thoughts about marriage were closely connected only to begetting heirs and business arrangements. He did not see his wife as a companion or confidant – not many nobles actually did, she supposed – and that made their situation even worse because the bond would force him to care.

“Is this all, Lord Bolton?” she whispered. “Or is there something else the bond can do to us?”

He seemed to hesitate and then he let go of Sansa’s hand. She observed as he sipped his wine – only small sips that served more as a distraction than anything else. When he glanced back at her, the expression in his eyes matched the one on his face. There was nothing and she truly could understand why people believed that there were no emotions in him at all.

“One record stated that a couple was able to share their very thoughts with a single look into each other’s eyes.”

Their eye contact lasted several long moments but nothing thankfully happened. The only man with whom she would be comfortable sharing all of her soul, body, and mind, was Jon. Sansa heaved a sigh of relief. So they had to get used to sharing emotions over a certain distance. That was more than enough, she believed. She wasn’t sure how she could live that – and she could even look in the eye of any of the others.

Sansa just really wanted to curl up into a ball in her bed and forget this horrible nightmare.

“Shall I leave you to your rest, then?”

“Thank you, my lord, I’d appreciate that.”

He rose to his feet with a nod and a small bow. Unable to watch the Lord of the Dreadfort any longer, Sansa distracted herself with the bowl of fruit at the table. When was the last time she had eaten? She wasn’t really sure.

“My queen?” Lord Bolton hesitated at the door and she turned to him. He was giving her an unreadable look and almost stepped back into the room. He stopped himself from approaching again and glanced to the ground and then back up. “It is an honor to be your husband.”

Sansa did not need the bond to tell her what her eyes clearly saw for themselves. The hesitation in his posture, that single glance away from her before he had spoken – he was lying, wasn’t he? She appreciated that Lord Bolton had tried but couldn’t help but feel that he wouldn’t have without the bond.

“I did not pick you, my lord,” she reminded him. Then she bit her lower lip and asked with curiosity, “Which god did?”

For the first time in their whole acquaintance, Lord Bolton smiled and his eyes became alive with that small smirk. “Couldn’t you guess, little wolf?”

It took her a moment to react when she realized that his amusement was almost playful and genuine. Then she took several more moments to actually think about which god had gone and chosen the Lord of the Dreadfort.

What did she know about him?

Next to nothing. Despite being in his company many times, they had never exchanged more than a few polite phrases. She had danced with his sons occasionally and knew them better. Sansa shared her like of music with Lord Domeric and whenever the young lord had played his harp on his visits, she had sung with him. Ramsay was a menace and hated the Stark sisters with a passion that was fervently returned since they had been small children.

Lord Bolton had a reputation among the Northmen as someone to be feared. Sansa doubted that any one of them had ever seen the man smile like this, though, or that anyone truly knew the man. The rumors about torture chambers in the dungeons of his castle and flayed skins hanging from the gates of the Dreadfort were only gossip. Her father would not tolerate such behavior in his lands, wouldn’t he?

Lord Bolton was swift and silent and unpredictable. He’s almost like… Sansa bit her lip again and shivered. Death. If the Stranger himself walked the earth, she could easily imagine him being a lot like Lord Bolton – quiet, softly and calmly speaking into people’s ears while driving cold blade quickly into their hearts, harvesting all the lives due to him.

“The Stranger picked you.” Sansa was certain that she was right and met his eyes without flinching. 

“He did. Does it bother you?”

Sansa thought about that for a moment and then she shook her head. No one sang for the Stranger, no one prayed to him for the Stranger’s face was the face of death. Even his statues were always turned facing the wall. People feared what they did not know or couldn’t understand and only in their fear of death they would turn to pray to the god of it to spare them.

When she visited sept, however, she always made certain to light all the candles for all the gods. She did not fear death – it was inevitable and after a life well-lived, it couldn’t be so bad to take the Stranger’s hand and leave this world behind. But if one’s life was cut too short, that was a tragedy. But that was also the natural way of the world.

They gazed at each other for a moment and Sansa could not decipher the emotion that flitted across his face before Lord Bolton nodded and with a shallow bow left the room.

Sansa aimlessly wandered around her chambers for several moments, blowing off candles. When she snuggled under the covers in her bed, she fell asleep surprisingly quickly. She dreamt of hands cold as ice and soothing whispers in her ear that promised that not all dark nights were full of terrors. She would never walk even the darkest paths alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon, honey, you still know nothing. But that’s all right, we love you anyway *laughs and winks and hugs a bewildered Jon*  
> Sooo, some of you guessed it right! *claps and cheers happily* On the other hand, I know that Roose isn’t the most popular character and I hated him for betraying the Starks… until I got prompted to write a soulmate fic featuring him and Sansa. Since then, Lord Bolton has sort of grown on me… I’m going to repeat myself again but… that voice… *sighs*  
> This is probably the best time to confess so you all know my true motivation for creating this story *blushes* I wondered in what universe Sansa could ever get to keep both the grumbly lion and the scary lord of flaying at the same time. Then this story grew arms and kidnapped Jon. And then it grew legs and ran toward Stannis, grabbing the rest of Sansa’s husbands along the way… And here we are *giggles madly* Also, throwing you off the trail is not easy. I tried my best, but you start to know me damn too well *chuckles*  
> Ay or nay for Roose as the Stranger’s pick? For me, there really wasn’t any other option for the Stranger’s favorite even if I didn’t like the character. Roose just seems to fit everything the Stranger is and represents.  
> On another topic, as you can see, Lyanna and Rhaegar’s relationship has a direct impact on Sansa and her hubbies. I’ll need something to keep you interested in this story after all the husbands are revealed, right? *winks* What’s better than a little bit of rivalry and tension among the consorts?  
> Next time: the Crone’s pick


	7. The Crone's Choice (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re starting where Cat stormed away from Jon and Ned ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the endnote ;)

PART ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN (I)

**_The Crone’s Choice_ **

_“What we don’t know is usually what gets us killed.”_

The morning of the bonding

Quietly observing the exchange between the Starks and their youngest son-in-law, he had to smirk. Shadows hid him as he followed the young queen’s mother discreetly as soon as she stormed off.

Lady Stark was a woman to be reckoned with, especially when she was on a warpath to protect her children. While Lord Eddard was a good and honorable man – too honorable to survive long in the capital – Lady Catelyn was not afraid to do whatever she believed to be necessary for the safety of her family. It was just as dangerous for those around her.

Varys had to keep his eye on the Starks, they would undoubtedly damage the Queen’s chances of not only ruling successfully but staying alive as well otherwise.

The Spider only occasionally amused himself with actual spying. He had people for that work, but these recent events were simply something that he had to see for himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. Life in King’s Landing without a king had been rather boring – Varys hadn’t been able to do a thing about any of his discoveries because there simply hadn’t been a competent person to report them to.

He chuckled silently as he imagined how the Small Council would react to him reporting that the Lannisters had been quietly expanding and rearming their troops and fleet. It did not take a genius to understand that Lord Lannister was up to something, surely. Varys wondered if the Great Lion would have tried to silence him by gold or blade. Almost just as hilarious was the idea of informing the Council that the Vale had been storing up for more than just winter as if they had something like a war in mind. Baelish was the sort of man to poison his enemies – if he wasn’t too busy burying his head under the skirt of that despicable Arryn woman.

Well, that’s going to end one way or another, he supposed. With a competent High Queen, things would start looking up and the Spider would be damned if he let the girl fail. He had spent a lot of time observing the young woman and he knew that she was worthy. Under the porcelain skin was hidden a mind of Valyrian steel. Her Stark blood was a guarantee that she would try her hardest to do right by the realm and the ruthless scheming streak she had inherited from old Hoster Tully would help her navigate the murky waters of politicking. Their young new queen was not unlike an earthquake and Varys was excited to see who would be left standing once the Wolf Queen grasped the reins of power fully.

He also supposed that the gods knew what they were doing, choosing Sansa Stark as the High Queen and choosing those men as her consorts. He had a file on each of the husbands. Some folders were thicker than others, of course. There wasn’t much to know about Ser Jon, for example, and there was plenty to know about Lord Lannister. He had a folder on the queen herself, too, but Varys didn’t think he would ever admit that to her face.

Varys recognized where Lady Stark was headed and lengthened his stride to get there before her. Ducking behind a tapestry and following through a secret passage, he was extremely careful not to make a sound.

The shouting was unmistakable even from distance. With a grim smile, he listened for a while before he got close enough to peek through a small opening in the wall. Oh my, the queen certainly knew how to make things interesting, didn’t she?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, this is not a full chapter as you’ve certainly noticed. It’s just the tiny piece I managed to write before everything went downhill. And yeah, I know the Crone’s pick is not yet revealed. Sorry.  
> I’d like to reassure you all that I’m alive and planning on writing again. I’m sorry for the silence but I hope you’ll understand. The current situation made me worried about my family and friends both at home and abroad and writing was the last thing on my mind for weeks. So, what’s been up with me?  
> In February, I sprained and broke my wrists sliding down a slope face down as the idiot I am. Because of my former hobby of contact sports and some old issues, the recent injury got pretty complicated. The good news is that my left hand is ok now and I’ll be able to use my right hand without trouble in time.  
> The cast is down at least, so hurray for that. The bad news is that typing with both hands is out of the question for now. At least I don’t have to wobble on crutches for months this time around (I happen to get injured a lot – dangerous hobbies and all that). My doctor said it could take months of physical therapy for the stiffness in my hands to go away and just trying to write this message with my left hand is greatly uncomfortable still and takes much longer than I thought it would. On the other hand, I worked in tourism, so now I have lots and lots of free time to try and at least edit stuff I have written and haven’t published yet. Most of that is for other of my GoT stories and completely different fandoms.  
> I’m going to take things slowly with writing new stuff now, so… would super short chapters be ok for you guys in the meantime? I’ll also start replying to comments in the next few days and with any luck, we’ll get through the hell of this spring soon.  
> I hope you are all safe and healthy wherever in the world you are. Your Mad Mage.


	8. The Crone's Choice (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who did the Crone pick…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my absence. I’m also going to update ‘King of Winter’ tomorrow evening, I swear… and now we can finally get on with this story! *claps her hands excitedly* I hope the choice won’t put you off the fic and you’ll give it a go *winks*
> 
> Let's see the poor guy Varys is spying on *grins*

PART ONE, CHAPTER SEVEN (II)

**_The Crone’s Choice_ **

_“What we don’t know is usually what gets us killed.”_

The morning of the bonding

Lysa had worked herself into quite a state, Petyr observed with detachment as he ignored the urge to rub at his mark – that would be like waving a red flag in front of an enraged bull. Or cow, as was the case. He inwardly congratulated himself on his self-restraint because the mark still _burnt_ and it was most distracting. Ignoring Lysa’s yelling, the Master of Coin sipped at his wine and unsuccessfully tried to snap himself out of the shock. It was too early in the morning to start drinking, so he took only small sips and rolled them around his tongue to give an appearance of doing something.

Petyr’s mind was usually always busy but he found himself quite lost and unable to focus on the matters at hand. He couldn’t think about the young queen and didn’t want to focus on Lysa – but he knew he must try, he needed to. Petyr briefly wondered where the girl from their childhood had gone. Young Lysa had been a little bashful, always trying to please others, just begging for attention. There was nothing left of that person in the woman in front of him. 

She had been waiting for him in the Master of Coin’s office, pacing around like the deranged hysterical she had become. As soon as Petyr had stepped through the door, she had pounced on him. He was used to Lysa’s more _tactile_ shows of affection but as soon as she had started kissing him – and biting, for gods’ sake – he had grabbed her hands and pushed her away with as much gentleness as he had been able to muster.

“We can’t, Lysa, that’s treason now,” he had told her. The laws did not differentiate between a High King and a High Queen. If the Consort was caught cheating, off with their head. Petyr liked his head attached to his shoulders – not to mention that finally having an excuse to stop seeing Lysa was a great relief in itself. Her bashfulness had turned into impudence, she was pushy, unstable, tasteless and tactless, insipid, and downright bored him to tears.

Lysa’s face had turned an ugly purplish shade. That’s when the yelling and sobs had started and he had wandered behind his desk to pour himself that wine.

Yes, a part of him was glad that the charade with Lysa was finally over. Perhaps he could even dare to breathe freely and not be always on his guard not to upset her much. Lady Arryn had just stopped being an important element in his plans and good riddance. What a relief.

Petyr supposed that he too had changed from the boy he had been, he acknowledged with a small inward smile. It wasn’t a loss he would ever mourn because that pathetic child had been doomed to be nothing but a failure – a lord of sheep shit, fated to watch his dreams turn to dirt under powerful men’s boots. No, that boy was better off dead and Lord Baelish was just within arm’s reach of having almost everything he had ever wanted.

A particularly loud wail interrupted his thoughts. What nonsense had Lysa been spouting? Oh, right. Something about loving him and only him, how they belonged together. How tedious. He had adopted a devastated look, of course, and had expressed his regret over the situation several times to try and shut her up but it had been pointless. There was no stopping her once she had started.

Petyr eyed the wine jug thoughtfully. Perhaps he could offer her a goblet of wine, slip the potent sleeping drug he wore hidden in one of his rings into the goblet, and then just wait for it to do its job. How long had this been going on already? Half an hour? There were things he needed to do, things he needed to think through, and with Lysa’s hysterics getting in the way, he simply couldn’t.

He was also rather curious to see the mark. It was now tingling warmly. The urge to make sure that the queen had been unharmed had been surprisingly strong and he wondered how that fact was going to change things for him.

“You promised!” Lysa screeched loudly, interrupting his thoughts. “Oh, Petyr, you promised! My son should have been the consort! But no! She took you instead! That’s a betrayal of the worst kind, betrayal of our blood! How could she? How?!”

“Lysa! Mind your tongue, my dear.” His voice was sharp. Their affair was fairly common knowledge – Lysa hadn’t been subtle after the death of Lord Arryn – but he couldn’t let her talk about the High Queen like that in his own bloody office.

He was Sansa’s husband now. The thought forced his thoughts to a halt for a second and he blinked before his mind started to function again. It was expected of him to defend the queen’s honor and name and he knew damned well that there was always someone listening. The Red Keep was full of little birds, of eagerly watching eyes and listening ears. He himself had tons of spies planted around the castle.

“I assure you that my daughter did not plan for this!” came a short retort from the door and he recognized the voice immediately.

What she was doing here? Petyr briefly closed his eyes before turning with a smile toward the voice. “Cat! Thank the gods you’re here! Your sister is distraught!”

“Oh, Lysa,” she sighed and opened her arms. “You know she wouldn’t do that to her own aunt, don’t you?”

“Sister!” screeched Lysa and flew toward her. Petyr watched with a slight grimace as she fell against Catelyn and started sobbing anew. In moments like these, he was easily transported to much happier times when they had been younger and carefree. Catelyn had always been their rock, whenever Lysa had fought with their father, or when Petyr had been just trounced on the training grounds… The easy friendship between them when they had been children was the only thing he had truly missed from those times, the only loss he had mourned. How uncomplicated it had been, how genuine – long before Cat’s betrothal, Lysa’s unfortunate marriage to Arryn and his own foolish infatuation had taken hold.

Catelyn’s eyes were furious as she looked at him while she tried to console her inconsolable sister. Petyr shrugged helplessly. He disliked the situation that had been thrust upon him even more than the enraged Lady Stark. All of his cautious plotting and planning had been destroyed in one single moment, years and years of careful efforts were suddenly nothing but a waste of time and resources. Everything he had aimed for was gone.

Well, he should have expected it. Queen Sansa was both a Stark and a Tully and those two houses were exceptionally good at ruining him.

There was nothing to it. Petyr rose, turned his back to the Tully sisters so they wouldn’t see his hands, and poured Lysa a goblet. He slipped the sleeping draught into the wine and with a small, sympathetic smile offered it to his ex-lover.

“Here, my dear, it will help you.”

Catelyn coaxed Lysa to turn in her embrace and Petyr pressed the goblet to her lips, holding it as she drank.

“You look tired, maybe you’d like to sit down?” he asked next and moved to wrap his arm around her back. He mouthed to Cat over Lysa’s bowed head, “Let’s get her to the chair.”

Cat nodded and they helped Lysa to sit down. Her sobs had subsided and she was now softly muttering to herself incoherently. Petyr took extra care to make sure she wouldn’t fall off and then he heaved a deep sigh, carefully avoiding Catelyn’s sharp gaze.

“Forgive her, my lady. Lysa has been not feeling well.” His shoulders slumped and he feigned exhaustion, bowing his head away from her. Checking Lysa, he was glad to note that she was finally out of it. A blessed stillness settled over the office for a moment.

“I can see that.” There was a brief moment of silence which he had used to smooth out his expression. Only when Petyr was confident that he could present the face he wanted Cat to see, he turned to look at her.

“Would you accompany me to a stroll in the gardens, my lady?” he offered her his arm. “We could talk, as I assume you wanted to do when you sought me out.”

Petyr wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk to Catelyn. The woman was his weak spot and he realized it quite well. He had a fairly good idea what she had wanted to discuss – he wasn’t an idiot – but he didn’t know what an appropriate response should be. Damn it all, he hadn’t had time to think this through. His new position, how it altered his plans, how to turn it all to his greatest advantage.

It was a monumental mess and he hadn’t been allowed a moment of peace to reconcile himself with the fact that he was suddenly married to the High Queen, who happened to be the favorite eldest daughter of the only woman he had ever loved. Perhaps he should have taken larger sips, he mused as Cat graciously accepted his arm. If this wasn’t the time for a stiff drink, he wasn’t sure what else could warrant an early morning drinking.

“Yes, there’s a lot we need to talk about, Petyr.” Cat’s voice promised him that the following moments would be anything but pleasant. She had been married to that Stark dimwit for far too long, he mused as he led her out into the gardens. She had already turned into a mother wolf, fiercely protective of her cubs. It did not bode well for him at all.

They remained silent as they strolled through the keep but he could feel Catelyn’s agitation radiating from her in waves. She was probably worried – she had already expressed her concern for the queen, left alone in the viper’s nest that was the capital on several occasions.

She was right to be worried, Petyr agreed. This place was no rose garden even though it seemed there was suddenly an abundance of roses. He hoped that the Tyrells would be soon going home. Lady Olenna was too good at the game – with her keen woman’s eyes, she noticed things that easily slipped under the notice of the Great Lion and other noble lords.

And that a new game was about to begin, Petyr did not doubt. The chessboard had been just set, after all, and he had a sinking suspicion that it would turn ugly one way or another. While he would have been looking forward to the utter chaos that was bound to be unleashed just yesterday, Petyr was now apprehensive.

There was the bond to consider. The moment he thought about it, the impulse to rub at his mark returned. He supposed that stripping down in front of Cat so he could take a look was out of the question but he was getting more and more curious to see what he would find there. Thinking about the mark led to Petyr thinking about the queen and he was surprised to discover that he was curious to know when she would wake. They had been all assured of her perfect health but the fact that all seven of them had gathered in her chambers, agitated out of their minds, was telling.

He prided himself on his observational skills and the consorts – himself included – had been worried about Sansa. Some had hidden it better than Ser Jon, but even that stoic Northman had been anxious about the queen’s state.

They were unable not to care about the queen’s state. That realization was making things difficult. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Did Petyr have to now consider the queen’s wellbeing in every move he was going to make in the game? If that was the case, Petyr was most probably totally fucked up.

For a selfish man such as him, considering another’s safety first was a foreign notion. It went against his nature. He wasn’t sure how he would cope with it if that was going to be required of him for the rest of his life. The bond was for life, wasn’t it?

“I need you to promise me,” Catelyn finally spoke as soon as they reached the edge of the gardens. Petyr did not look at her, he was observing their surroundings instead, noting his own spy to his left and one of the Spider’s further down the path.

“Yes?” he prompted when she didn’t continue.

Cat stopped and urged him to look at her. Reluctantly, Petyr did so – his gaze only skimming over her face and never quite meeting her blue eyes. He focused on the bridge of her nose to keep up the appearance, though. Looking into the blue depths had always been a particularly sore spot for him. Lysa’s eyes were lighter, a watered-down version of Catelyn’s.

“You have to swear to keep my daughter safe.”

“I hope you know I would never hurt your daughter,” he said, uneasiness rising in him. “How can you even ask that of me, Cat? You are my dearest friend. I would never hurt your child.”

He doubted he could under these circumstances anyway.

“No, of course, I don’t doubt you, Petyr.” Cat took hold of his hand and gave it a firm squeeze. He stared down at their hands for a moment, wondering when she had last touched him like that... like they were close. They hadn’t been close for years.

“But the others… Oh, gods, my poor sweet child!” she cried out, lips trembling. Catelyn then had the grace not to turn in a blubbering mess and she mastered her emotions quickly. Only anger was left to simmer in her gaze. “Lannister. Bolton. Stannis Baratheon. They are all so very cold. Ser Arthur and Prince Oberyn are Dornish. They are all so much older than her… I’m very scared for my daughter, Petyr, with men like these.”

He was inwardly amused by the fact that Cat had not included him into the list of men her precious daughter needed protecting from. Somehow, he had the dubious honor of sharing the category of _harmless_ with the almost bastard Targaryen. Letting Cat see his amusement was a bad idea, though.

Petyr instead thought about the others. He knew nothing about Lord Bolton expect some rumors that had followed the man even this far south but he knew plenty about Lord Lannister and Lord Stannis. While the men certainly were cold, they had been properly raised to at least respect their wife as a lord should. Arthur Dayne’s loyalty to the queen was unquestionable – the man was incapable of deception and the way he usually stared at the young monarch was rather telling. Prince Oberyn Martell was Dornish, that was true, but Petyr was certain that Cat harbored some serious misconceptions about the Dornish culture in general. Prince Oberyn treated his lovers with the utmost respect and consideration, it was only logical to assume that he would extend the same courtesy to his queen and wife.

“I will, Catelyn, of course, I will.”

She bowed her head in thanks and heaved a long, heavy sigh. He watched her, how silver slowly crept into the fire of her hair. Once upon a time, he had wanted to grow old with this woman but the gods had decided to give him her daughter instead, bind him to the child of his only love.

He had always thought that the gods were nothing but a bunch of sadists with a twisted sense of humor.

Catelyn lingered for a short time after that. It was obvious that she was anxious to be going. Petyr supposed that she needed to find comfort with her oaf of a husband. He wanted to scoff at the thought but strangely, the ire that usually bubbled inside of him when he thought about Lord Stark wasn’t quite there.

Rubbing at the mark absentmindedly, he bowed to Cat as she made her excuses and watched her go, his mind in turmoil. For years he had loved the woman but this was the first time when watching her go did nothing to him.

Petyr was certain that his days were about to become much busier. The queen was a young pretty thing. He had no idea if there was a brain somewhere in between her ears but he doubted that she had the stomach for the… shadier politics of the state. She would need… He grimaced at his own thoughts. Sansa would need a little helping hand. Unfortunately, Petyr was bound to her now and her wellbeing was of paramount importance to him – for obvious reasons. She would need his slyness, wouldn’t she?

There was a reason why the consorts were who they were, wasn’t there? The Great Lion had basically ruled the kingdoms before the queen had even been born. He was powerful and knew how to deal with rebellious houses and unruly subjects with great pomp. Stannis Baratheon was as levelheaded as they could get and just and rightful as the kings of legend had been. That Northman was pragmatic, ruthless, and not easily blinded by his pride or honor. Those three would have been excellent choices for her Small Council and would be a great help of ruling the kingdoms, coming from three different and distinct regions of the realm.

Now, there was the mater of the queen herself left. Arthur Dayne was without any doubt the best man possible to keep her unharmed in every sense of the word. His reputation alone would go a long way to assure Sansa’s physical safety and his unwavering devotion would take care of any emotional uproar the queen might face. Between the two Dornishmen, Sansa was going to be loved, cherished, and most probably fucked into oblivion every night.

That made him snicker and with a grin, the Master of Coin admitted to himself that he would definitely not mind educating the queen in those matters himself. Sex could be an art, and he dealt with all manners of luxuries.

The only consort that did not make too much sense to him was the Targaryen bastard. Binding a Tyrell to Sansa would have kept the Reach as close as the other regions were. However, Ser Jon had been the queen’s betrothed, and Petyr supposed that not even the gods would deprive a young woman of something nice to look at. The boy was pretty and young – which could not be said about the rest of the consorts.

It was quite clear what Petyr’s role was going to be – he’s to deal with the shadowy business of ruling, wasn’t he? He supposed that he would need to keep the Reach in line using his particular brand of cleverness, then. He would also need to make sure that Lysa wouldn’T do anything stupid and there were the Greyjoys to consider. Gods, those fools were certainly going to feel slighted.

He wandered through the gardens for a time and then sat down on a bench in full sunlight. He liked the warm weather of the capital mostly because it was a complete opposite of the cold and gloomy murkiness of the Fingers. It wasn’t long before he was joined by the Spider.

Watching the man approach from the corner of his eyes, he couldn’t help but grin inwardly. This conversation should prove to be interesting.

“How much of my private talk with Lady Stark have you been privy to, my friend?” he asked good-naturedly. Varys was… not quite a friend but he wasn’t an adversary either. As long as their interests did not clash, they were perfectly amiable to each other, and in those times when they were not, they were at least polite and each man could lose with grace. Sometimes, they were even allies. 

“Your words wound me, my friend.”

“I’m sure they do.” Petyr looked around and grinned at the septa reading her book not far from them, who happened to work for Lady Olenna.

Varys sat down next to him and then leaned forward, his chin resting in one of his palms. Petyr assumed a similar position and both made sure that their lips couldn’t be read. They remained silent for several minutes. Petyr knew that Varys contemplated a serious decision – he himself was going through the pros and cons of a certain matter himself. Perhaps they could enter an alliance again.

“I was disappointed when Lady Stark did not ask you to promise her not to bed the queen,” said Varys then, his amusement evident in his tone.

“Yes, she looked like she was thinking about it, wasn’t she?” Petyr agreed, chuckling.

“The queen’s mother is a formidable woman,” continued Varys idly, giving him a sidelong glance.

“But the Starks are not well equipped to deal with southern climates, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Quite so. They could do irreparable damage to the realm… to the queen.”

“Best to send them on their way, then.” They shared a long look and Petyr was pleased to note that the Spider was on the same page as him. While the Master of Coin was certain that he was better at the game than the Master of Whispers, having Varys on their side was much better. He would hate to plot his dear friend’s murder.

Petyr placed his hand over his heart, over the mark, and kept it there as he continued his talk with the Spider. They traded tidbits of information, alluded to their joint plan to send the Starks home as soon as possible, and agreed to keep an eye on the Tyrells for the time being. The warmth of the mark was not unpleasant. It was actually something he could get used to.

Only after Varys excused himself, Petyr realized that sometime during the morning he had stopped thinking about his side as separate from the queen’s. It left him shaken. There had always been only his side as long as he could remember, he had always looked after his interest only. Now, there was their side, and it made him feel strangely vulnerable and uncertain. It also settled the turmoil inside him now that he knew where he stood and what he needed to do. Lord Baelish would do his best to keep his new wife in power, which in turn would keep him in power. It was as simple as that.

Better get to work, Petyr decided and made his way to his office. He had Lysa moved into her own chambers to rest and sat behind his desk, contemplating what needed to be done. He was sure that there was some dirt he could find about the Tyrell heir to keep him in line if Lady Olenna decided to be difficult. He’d have his best people working on it, and in the meantime, Petyr was sure that he could keep himself occupied.

Leaning back in his chair, his mind finally started to work on all possible scenarios the bond could lead to. Planning and plotting was his second nature, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... *hides behind her dogs* Some of you wanted it to be Petyr and some of you did not *sighs* To be honest, Varys would have been the Crone’s pick if he was able to father children. He can’t do that and that left me with… Littlefinger. Who’s read some of my other stories knows that I’m not fond of him. He’s manipulative and thinks himself very clever – but he’s not wise. So, why would the Crone pick a man like that when we have here guys much more suitable to be Sansa’s hubbies such as Sam or Willas?
> 
> Well, Sam or Willas would be good to Sansa but boring and between Tywin and Oberyn and the others too meek to wrestle any of Sansa’s attention for themselves. And it’s a challenge to write someone I don’t like in a way that will work. Also, the Crone is seen as leading people to wisdom, not letting them ‘stumble in dark places’ and she sees Littlefinger’s potential to be wise… so she allows him to prove himself. Just like the Father did with Stannis, or the Smith with Tywin, or the Mother with Oberyn. The guys just need to do a bit of growing up and realize what the gods want from them. Also, by including Baelish in the gaggle of husbands, he’s unable to scheme against them *smirks* Never try to outsmart the goddess of foresight, Petyr. I suppose I’ll have fun putting him through hell *grins maniacally*  
> Ay or nay for Littlefinger as the Crone’s pick?
> 
> So, this marks the end of the first part of this story. It was fun and I enjoyed writing it immensely! I hope you guys will still come and read what comes next. If not, thank you for reading this far and your comments. I do love you all for that : )
> 
> This is a terrible year so far. My personal computer decided to die and I can’t blame him, I had it for almost 6 years and we traveled a lot. It complicates everything, of course, and I’m posting this chapter during my lunch break at the office. I’m working on a solution that does not involve throwing away a lot of money for a new one when things are so uncertain.
> 
> It means that updates to all my stories are going to be delayed but I’m still around, don’t worry about that. I’m also happy to say that my hands are almost as good as new, so that’s positive as least *grins*
> 
> Stay safe and healthy, love Mage : )
> 
> Next part: How the seven hells is a girl supposed to fit seven husbands into her life?

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter works as a one-shot *winks*


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